Dear Doctor,

“Science may provide the most useful way to organize empirical, reproducible data, but its power to do so is predicated on its inability to grasp the most central aspects of human life: hope, fear, love, hate, beauty, envy, honor, weakness, striving, suffering, virtue.” 

― Paul Kalanithi, When Breath Becomes Air

Dear Doctor,

I am certain that you don't remember me. I know you have delivered hundreds of babies (maybe thousands?). I wasn't even one of your patients~ not really. I'm not even a blip in the story of your life but for 16 years now, you've been a bigger part of mine than you realize.

Sixteen years ago on September 15th, I was a week overdue with twins. I went to the hospital to finally get induced and you were the doctor on call that night. The nurses were having difficulty finding heart tones so you stepped in. You ordered an ultrasound and and the familiar pictures of my children appeared on the screen but one thing was different. That beautiful spark we mothers see that stops our heart- that beat of our children- was gone. I knew what it meant. You moved your wand to the other side of my stomach and the same picture came up. You looked to me and said,

"I'm sorry but your fetuses are dead." 

Yes~ I can put it in quotes because though we've only spoken two times in my life, I will never forget your voice. I will never forget those seven words that you spoke. I remember being a bit more alarmed by the word "fetuses" than by the message you were trying to communicate to me.

I looked to my husband and mother (my labor coaches) and back to you and I said, "But I feel movement." You put your hand on my left forearm, gently shook it and said, "I'm sorry, that's you breathing." I took your hand from my arm, guided it to the side of my stomach and you felt it too. You ordered the ultrasound tech to my side where he moved his wand and said, "I'm sorry. It appears that one of your babies has died but the other is right here."

That second fetus you thought was dead is now 16 years old. His brother is not. Yet, there's not a day that goes by that I don't think of that precious boy. For years, I said your name at support group meetings and to all my friends. Angry. Angry that for even a moment you let my family think that BOTH of my sons had died. That you made them think that I was the crazy one.

I went on to have more children and I WAS the crazy one. My wonderful doctor took my worries seriously. She understood what the loss of my son did to me and she treated my head as much as she treated my body. When it came time to do NSTs (for my head), I would first call the hospital. If you were on-call, I would change my appointment. I knew that seeing you again would break me. I was careful but healing.

Nearly 6 years later I was pregnant for the last time and while you would think that as I neared my due date I would be a little less scared, my doctor knew better. She knew me. I was as heart sick as I was for my daughter who came just 15 months after my heart broke. However, I thought I was better and for the first time in three subsequent pregnancies, I didn't make the call before my NST to see if you were working.

After finishing up that NST, the nurse told me that the doctor would be in in a moment to sign off on it. When I asked her which doctor was on call, she said your name. I almost lost my breath but I was stronger. I could do this.

You walked in, glanced at me for a less than a moment and said hello while looking at my charts. I kept thinking. You don't know me. You have no idea who I am. You asked me why I was getting NSTs and I told you that my first son, was stillborn due to a cord accident. You said, "Well, this one looks fine, there's no need to be here," wished me well quickly and left.

It happened again. I was dismissed. I was wrong. I SHOULD be there. I was there for a reason and part of that reason was you.

I walked out of that hospital faster than any pregnant woman probably had and when I hit the door I RAN to my car,  shut the door, and cried.

Again~ I felt dismissed. I had let you do that to me. Again. Why was I so weak?

I have written to you for years in my head- and sometimes in my journals. At support group meetings, I have heard your name come out of lips that AREN'T mine and I know you have not really changed. You just don't get it~ so maybe it's time I shared this story so that perhaps you will. Perhaps you will pause the next time there is a CHILD who has died. Perhaps you will pause and think of your words knowing that what you speak and the way in which you speak it will be on the hardest day of your patient's life and that they will never be forgotten. Words are powerful~ But so is forgiveness.

I have read some reviews on you that said you were perfectly lovely and I always thought~ I'm sure he is. If your baby doesn't die.

I have forgiven you in my head for years now but still it lingers. I thought of you when I recently read this book that I am gifting you. I thought you should read it and then maybe you'd understand, I am not sure, but perhaps this gift can be a gift to your future patients who will share their worst days with you and you can be a source of comfort instead of pain.

I forgive you.

That fetus you thought was dead is 16 now. He's absolutely amazing! He's smart, musical, artistic, athletic, funny and kind. I look at him and I imagine his brother. I wonder.  I look at him and sometimes think~ Thank you for kicking on that night when I needed you too. Thank you for that gift. Thank you for being my SON just like your BROTHER was.

Words matter.

I forgive you.

Laura