What having a baby taught me about the illusion of control
April 2, 2025, 7 AM ET
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I miscarried in three acts.
The first was the bad appointment: the somber technician; the clinical, straightforward news—not enough growth for eight weeks and, worse, no heartbeat. She was so sorry; the doctor would be in touch.
The second act was the D&C, short for “dilation and curettage”: the paperwork, the kind and efficient nurses, the IV and the sterile room—all stainless steel and bright lights, solid stirrups, and tissue-paper gowns—and the scraping from my uterus of what was supposed to have been my baby.
The third act was another D&C: the same as the previous time, but now even less dignified, somehow, because shouldn’t it be enough to miscarry once? There’s extra tissue, they said; sometimes this happens.
I had not ordered the upgraded version, the miscarriage with a side of miscarriage.
