"No Compassion"

 

            Sometime between 1952 and 1957, my mother had a miscarriage. At that time, women had to miss three cycles before getting pregnancy tests. I know for certain that Mom had to be at least sixteen weeks along when her hemorrhaging and severe abdominal cramping forced Dad to rush into the emergency room at MacDill Air Force Base. He told the story of blood being everywhere, doctors and nurses surrounding him as he carried Mom into the room, and thinking she was already dead.

            Mom recounted that she felt herself looking down from above as the emergency staff worked over her. “We’re losing her! We’re losing her! We’re losing her!” warned one doctor.  Mom’s thought was that she couldn’t die; she had my sister to love and care for. As the number of miscarriages in the Tampa area increased, eventually they were linked to the DDT that fogged the streets during that time period. Mom’s future pregnancies received the designation as “High Risk” and the military doctors sent her to a private OB/GYN when she was pregnant with me.             

            The severity of damage to her uterus made another miscarriage possible, but I arrived without difficulties. However, Mom continued to have problems with menstrual pain that grew progressively aggressive as the years passed. She also had difficulty getting pregnant again, and had almost given up on any more children, when she finally became pregnant with my brother in 1962.

            After my brother’s birth, Mom’s menstrual cycles grew more painful. Her interactions with doctors became a pathetic round of them minimizing her agony. When she recounted passing blood clots larger than her fist, one doctor patted her on the knee and said, “It’s all in your head, dear.” Eventually, one doctor tried prescribing birth control pills that barely dinted her pain. By 1967, Mom spent part of every month writhing in anguish, bed bound with heating pads and hot water bottles, unable to function for days.

            Dad became Mom’s advocate and eventually found a military surgeon who listened to them. He ordered X-rays and suggested surgery because of an unidentified mass he spotted. He advised that he would probably need to remove Mom’s uterus, which my parents agreed to immediately.

            However, when the surgeon noted that Dad was Catholic, he knew that he would have to consult with Dad’s priest to get permission from him. Imagine my mother’s furor to learn that after all of the years of doctors’ knee patting condensation, she needed another male’s approval for a hysterectomy. My mother wasn’t Catholic. My father was, and so her surgery was delayed until after the doctor proved to the priest the medical necessity of the procedure.

            Mom’s long ago miscarriage had torn her uterus. With every menstrual cycle, endometrial tissue seeped into her abdomen and adhered to her ovaries, Fallopian tubes, and pelvis. Once the surgeon opened her up, he found metal sutures from the appendectomy she had as a teenager with endometrial tissue attached to the entire area. He told Mom after he was finished that he was ashamed so many doctors had dismissed her and the obvious suffering she bore monthly.

           

            Unfortunately, Mom’s story in the 1950s and 1960s continues even now with many women seeking reproductive care. Today, patients and physicians pit themselves against merciless laws that needlessly endanger personal freedoms.

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman      

"Looking for Answers"

          Ever wish for the power to see into the future? Ever long for the ability to know ahead of time if the path you’ve set out on will take you where you really want to go?

In my twenties, I set out on a journey with David that meant we selected a trail and forged ahead no matter what barrier blocked our journey. During the first years, we struggled with meeting basic necessities. Like most people, our twenties meant scrounging for every penny just to make it through each month. I remember evaluating everything by gallons of milk or gas. Did we need to go to a movie? That would be “spending” three gallons of milk on entertainment. How much did I want that new top? It would cost me the same as a tank of gas to go see my family. By being budget conscious and frugal, we pulled together enough money to purchase our home, but it wasn’t easy. Our next goal, having a child, proved an unexpected challenge, too. While many of our friends and family members seemed to pop out babies with great ease, we found ourselves looking for the answers to infertility. The answer we found, adoption, led us onto the wonderful path of parenthood.

         In our thirties, David had the opportunity to start his own business and work from our home. We couldn’t turn down the chance of having one parent at home at all times. The freelance business brought its own trials. Clients loved to send contracts with short turnarounds on completing the work, but then they bogged down the payment process. Sometimes a project’s payment wouldn’t come in for more than two months. If we’d had a crystal ball that could have predicted the shortcomings and obstacles of self-employment, would David have attempted his business? Even with hindsight on the difficulties we faced, we probably would have made the same choices because the benefits of having a parent at home outweighed the uncertainties of sporadic income.

         Every decision we made as a couple, we made with the goal of keeping our family strong. Many times, life piled seemingly insurmountable obstacles on the trail before us. Often, we plowed forward blindly on the pure faith that if we put family first we couldn’t get off track. Sometimes onlookers from the sidelines catcalled and jeered, trying to steer us into another direction. They’d throw large bricks of doubt directly in front of us that made us lose our footing and momentum. Eventually, we learned to block out the noise of the faceless crowd and kept true to our trek.

         I thought, foolishly, that I’d eventually hit an age where everything would fall into place. Where the wisdom of my years and experience would mean I wouldn’t flounder on this winding trail of life. However, questions still plague my days and nights. Obstructions make me pause and second guess myself. I find that I’m still trying to divine the future as I take another loop along the path. My soul searching illuminates the road just far enough ahead for me to know that keeping family whole and strong will secure safe passage.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman