My cousin got married at 22. They wanted a house full of kids. She got pregnant within months, they painted a nursery before the first trimester was even over.
Then she miscarried.
She had a procedure. Woke up groggy. Doctor smiled and said, “Everything’s fine. You can try again soon.”
They tried for years.
Every negative test felt like a verdict. Her in-laws started making comments. Her husband grew distant. Eventually he left. Said he “wanted a real family.” He remarried within a year. Two babies back to back.
She thought her body had betrayed her.
In her late 50s, after new medical transparency laws made it easier to request old hospital files, she applied for her records.
Buried in the notes from that miscarriage was a line: “Complication during procedure. Uterine perforation. Significant scarring.”
No one had explained it. No follow-up. No referral. No honesty.
She spent three decades blaming herself for something that happened to her.
Some women are told their bodies failed them.
Sometimes the truth is, someone else did.
“Do you want kids” actually I want to be so deeply and safely inlove with a genuine, handsome, considerate, emotionally intelligent, healed provider of a man that the only feasible next option is to make him a father.
A lot of adults don't better themselves??? and have no intention of growth or healing?? just living their lives with horrible communication skills, lack of emotional intelligence, selfishness, and hurt feelings like FOREVER?????
@xevekiah I look at stories like these and wonder how many women have died because of medical misogyny and we don't know about them because they're not here to tell their story
I remember the time I went to the ER 3 months postpartum because I couldn’t stop vomiting and my chest felt tight. I kept telling them: this isn’t anxiety. Something is wrong.
The nurse glanced at my chart and said, “A lot of new moms feel overwhelmed.”
A resident came in, barely looked at me, and said, “It’s probably a panic attack. Try to relax.”
They left me in a hallway bed. No monitor. No urgency. Just that look that says you’re being dramatic.
I whispered, “I think I’m going to pass out.”
He laughed and said, “You’re safe here. You’re not dying.”
Ten minutes later I stood up and collapsed.
Suddenly there were doctors everywhere. Suddenly they checked my oxygen. Suddenly they rushed me to imaging.
CT scan: pulmonary embolism. Blood clots in my lungs.
The same doctor who told me to “relax” came back acting shocked.
He said, “Good thing you came in.”
I looked at him and thought: I didn’t just come in. I begged to be taken seriously.
Why am I telling you this?
Because if I didn’t collapse in front of them, I genuinely think I would’ve been sent home with “anxiety” and a pamphlet about breathing exercises