Finally, the day of my surgery arrived. I had to be there at 10:30. Because of the pandemic, I had to go in alone. My grandma had to wait outside for me. But, when we arrived and they told me to say goodbye, I broke down crying. I couldn’t go alone. I was terrified. I didn’t want them to take my baby because when they did that, it was over. It made it real. The nurse was very kind and checked if my grandma could come with me to pre-op. Thankfully, she was allowed. I walked to my pre-op room where I was admitted and I changed into my hospital gown. I was so numb that I didn’t care that my grandma was in the room as I stripped and pulled the gown on. I was given my IV and fluids. My grandma talked about my cousin’s wedding while I laid there. I was thankful for her non-stop talking. It was something else to focus on. 

The nurse came back in after a bit of time and handed me a form. “Read this and sign it. Your grandma can be the witness.” I had no idea what it was. I stared at the nurse as she left the room. I looked down at the form and realized what it was. Written in black were the options of what they could do to my little Bean: dispose of it in medical waste, to take it home myself, or to send it to a funeral home. It actually said medical waste. There was an option that my baby was medical waste. How messed up is that? My baby whom I wanted so much was just going to be medical waste. I wasn’t taking him to a funeral home and I certainly wasn’t taking him home with me. I began sobbing again and my grandma took the form and realized what it said. Neither of us had known about the form and it destroyed me to have to say that my baby was medical waste. I curled up on the bed and didn’t talk much.

Doctors and nurses kept coming in to go over the procedure, my allergies, and anesthesia. I was constantly reminded why I was there. I had to constantly tell people that I was there for a D&C. I was numb to the nurses telling me they were sorry for my loss. They didn’t get it. No one did. Not even my husband. I didn’t even force him to come with me on the day of surgery. He had told me he couldn’t get time off because he had come home the day we had found out I had miscarried. I was so numb that I didn’t even fight him. I just asked my grandma to go instead. I didn’t have any fight in me, but there were times that I hated him for that. He wasn’t forced to go through all of this. He could take space from the grief. I was forced to go through every step. 

It was past noon now. I was supposed to be in the operating room. I was supposed to be going to sleep, but the surgeon was not allowed to give me the Rhogam shot because the hospital refused to accept the type and cross I had years ago. So, we had to wait for someone from the lab to come up and take my blood. The waiting was starting to get to me. My grandma kept talking about my cousin’s wedding which was comforting, but I really wanted to go home. I wanted to go home and not return to the hospital until my baby was due. But my baby was dead. There would be no labor and delivery in January. I would not bring home a beautiful healthy baby on my due date. 

Two hours later, they had me say goodbye to my grandma. They sent her to the atrium to wait for me and they gave me my first drug cocktail to calm me down. It made me feel very drunk and dizzy and I didn’t like it. But it did make the trip to the operating room much easier. 

Then, it was time for me to slide over to the operating table. It was very narrow, very black, and very real. I remembered the anesthesiologist nurse had told me it would be narrow and that they would strap me down before I was put under. Her name was Stephanie. I really liked her. She was nice and having her with me was comforting. 

There was a lot of movement right before I went under. The nurses started to strap me down and position my arms. I just focused on Stephanie. She stood above me as she positioned the oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. I watched her as I felt everyone moving around me. She told me they were putting the anesthesia in my IV. I just focused on Stephanie’s face above me. I could see the ceiling tiles above her head. Then, I was asleep. 

I woke up later in recovery. I was crying. Why was I crying? Then, everything came flooding back. My baby, the miscarriage, the D&C. A nurse appeared next to my bed with tissues and handed them to me. She explained that the surgery went well and that they had already called my grandma to tell her it went well. She sat with me while I cried. Once I felt better, she checked the pad they had shoved between my legs under the hospital gown since I had no underwear on. I felt gross and heavy and depressed. I watched the nurses walk by. I watched the other patients come into the recovery area. Thankfully, I had my glasses so I could see. I had asked Stephanie if they could hold onto them rather than put them with my clothes so that I could have them right after surgery. I had woken up with them on and I was very grateful for that. 

After twenty minutes, they wheeled me to my post-op room. I was allowed to have some juice and crackers while I watched Criminal Minds. It was very quiet without my grandma there talking. I missed my husband. I realized how much I had wanted him there with me to support me and hold me while I cried. A nurse came in and checked my pad again for bleeding. I laid in that room for a while, probably a half-hour before the nurse returned and told me that I was going to be discharged, but I needed my Rhogam shot before I left. She had me roll over so that she could inject it into my butt. It was very painful and made my emotional pain even worse. I was getting the shot but no baby with it. My baby was now medical waste. 

I was allowed to go change right afterward. The nurse pulled the pad out from behind me so that I didn’t have to see all the blood. She gave me a new pad to put in while I was going to the bathroom. I changed slowly, avoiding my IV, and went back to the bed so that the nurse could take my IV out. I was put in a wheelchair and wheeled out to my grandma waiting in the car. She brought me to get something to eat before bringing me home. It was 5 in the evening when we got home.

When I got home, I laid in the recliner while my grandma visited with the dog and cat. I didn’t want to talk much, but my grandma did keep saying how she liked everyone at the hospital and how nice everyone was. I laid there until I finally kicked her out so that I could nap before my husband got home. When he got home, I put on a brave face and showered. I refused to talk about the surgery. I couldn’t talk about what happened with my husband. He didn’t seem affected by it and I was being torn apart by it. I didn’t want him to fall apart too. 

It still feels surreal even days after the surgery. It’s weird to admit that I had a D&C to remove my child from my body. It’s weird to think back to the day of the surgery. It’s a nightmare. It’s still a nightmare. Nights are the worst. I dream about my baby, about him being ripped apart when he was forcibly removed from my body. I dream about me being ripped apart with him. I dream about who he would have become. Would he have looked like me or my husband? Would he actually have been a he or a she? We will have to live with all of the unknowns forever, but this was supposed to remain our secret forever because the world isn’t okay with talking about miscarriage.