Rachel’s Story

WHARR
WHARR
Jul 21, 2017 · 2 min read

I was in my early 30s that night, and I giggled as I told the waitress that no, I would not be drinking that evening. I was five weeks pregnant.

My joy and elation quickly passed when I miscarried a week or so later. I cried as I bled into the toilet, then dragged myself to the doctor to confirm the pregnancy had failed. I didn’t dwell in the sadness long, thinking, “I’m young, I’ll get pregnant again.” A few weeks later my husband and I flew to Austin, Texas on a work-related trip, geared up for a weekend of work with fun colleagues who’d help us blow off the steam of the prior weeks.

But that all changed when my phone rang as I walked through baggage claim in Texas. I could hear the words of my doctor gently but firmly telling me that something odd was happening: my pregnancy hormones were rising instead of lowering as one would expect after a miscarriage. “Go get help quickly,” she said. “Go to the ER and ask for methotrexate.”

We dropped our bags and headed to the nearest hospital. The ER doctor came to see me quickly; I explained I was there on doctor’s orders. He examined me. Then he left and came back, and left and came back again.

“We don’t do abortions.”

I repeated that I was there on doctor’s orders, provided the specific background, and the risk of ectopic pregnancy my doctor in New York had told me about. And he repeated, “I won’t give you methotrexate. I don’t perform abortions, honey. You never know what God’s will is. You can go now.”

A surgeon denied me treatment in an emergency room, despite my doctor’s orders of urgent care.

I had to fly cross-country to receive treatment that was medically necessary to save my reproductive future and possibly, my life.

I then spent days in and out of NYC emergency rooms, undergoing incessant vaginal exams, while heartbroken about the missed opportunity of humane, non-invasive treatment.

During one exam, I could hear the heartbeat of a 9-week old fetus trapped in my left fallopian tube. Moments later, the tube started to burst, leaking toxins into my body. I was rushed into emergency surgery.

Women are strong. We heal, and we help each other heal. I learned to stand up on my own; to trust my body again; to trust doctors again.

But I’m scared now, because religious dogmatism and misogyny almost killed me. And I’m afraid it will kill someone else if we don’t do something about it now.

My name is Rachel, I’m 36 years old, and this is why I’m with WHARR.

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WHARR

Written by

WHARR

WHARR: We promote gender equity, women’s health, and reproductive rights. We fight against anti-choice and other regressive policies that harm women’s health.

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