Below is reader Daniela’s account of the obstetric violence she experienced when she had to undergo a curettage procedure. But after all, what is obstetric violence? Going against the ideals of humanized childbirth—which prioritizes the well-being of both mother and baby—obstetric violence is not limited to physical aggression. Such a beautiful moment as childbirth can become traumatic because of humiliating, disrespectful, and rude treatment from healthcare professionals assisting the birthing woman. Verbal offenses can often hurt much more than a slap itself.
Any treatment that is inappropriate for the situation can indeed be considered obstetric violence. For example, a woman in labor who is struggling to push during childbirth. She should not be tied down or prevented from screaming, nor should she be subjected to offensive remarks such as “be quiet and push this baby out” or have any procedure performed without prior consent or at least an explanation as to why. In short, reports of obstetric violence have been increasing every day, fortunately because people are becoming more aware of their rights, especially pregnant women.
“My case of obstetric violence never even reached the delivery room—in fact, it was far from it… After just two months of trying to get pregnant, I got a positive result and my husband and I were ecstatic, we told our family and started celebrating until, at the seventh week, during an ER visit for light bleeding, we were surprised by the news of the embryo’s death. I had already heard the heartbeat during an ultrasound at the fifth week, so seeing it motionless was shocking, and the sadness on my husband’s face, who had come with me to see and hear our baby’s heartbeat for the first time, shattered me…
I was sent to the ER doctor who explained that it was a case of missed miscarriage and that I should take medicine for the next seven days to expel the embryo completely. After that, I would return so they could check if the miscarriage was complete and see if a curettage would be needed. The doctor was professional but not very warm; she gave me a seven-day medical note and clearly explained what to do, and then I went home to face that pain and emptiness of losing my baby. It was terribly painful, and my husband and I were inconsolable. But life had to go on.
After two days of taking the medication, I started having strong contractions and, after the bleeding began, I finally expelled the embryo—a painful moment, especially because of what it represented: I knew my baby had died and had to be expelled, but watching it leave me and fall into the toilet was extremely hard. I bled heavily for the following days, and by the end of the week, I returned to the ER, where I first had an ultrasound and was then sent to the on-call OB/GYN.
In the gynecology waiting room, there were several happy pregnant women stroking their bellies, and one in labor in visible pain, while I clutched my ultrasound report which stated whether or not my uterus was completely empty or if there were still remains of the baby I had had to expel. I tried to hold back my tears and hoped at least that I wouldn’t have to undergo curettage, knowing that afterward I would have to wait at least six months for another chance to try for a baby, and of course, my anxiety would drive me crazy during those six months…
When it was my turn to be seen, I noticed several interns and/or residents in the room and an older doctor who seemed to be in charge. I was confused by so many people, and one of the professionals asked what my case was, while everyone watched me. Intimidated, I replied that I had been diagnosed with a missed miscarriage, had taken medication to expel the embryo, and was now there to check if the expulsion was complete. I don’t know if I failed to make something clear or explained myself poorly. The older doctor took my ultrasound, told the others what steps to take, and left the room.
Then, the staff member attending me explained that there was still retained tissue in my uterus and that they would prescribe me another week of medication to attempt complete expulsion. I asked if they would give me another week off work, since the medication caused cramps. The professional looked at me quite unwillingly and said, “I’ll only give you today, I can’t give you more than that”, at which point I panicked because I was in no physical—let alone psychological—condition to go back and teach: the blood loss had left me weak, and the memory of the miscarriage made me cry constantly. I started crying and said, “I’m not able to go back to teaching, I teach standing till 10 p.m., I won’t manage…” The doctor was visibly annoyed by my reaction and replied, pointing to her colleague beside her, who was filling out the note: “She’ll see what she can do for you” while she wrote the prescription. She then handed me the prescription and a note, saying: “We’ll give you two days, more than that is not possible.”
I thanked her deeply, wiping away my tears, and left the room feeling confused, not understanding why I had been treated with such disregard and contempt. I was a victim, losing my baby, and went to the ER expecting compassionate, humane care sensitive to my pain. Instead, I was met with people who made it clear they thought I was using a miscarriage as an excuse to avoid work. I was left with a lot of doubts, trying to recall exactly what I had said that could have been misunderstood and explain the doctor’s harshness…
But I couldn’t make sense of it. When I got home and told some people what had happened, I was warned that many doctors always assume miscarriages are induced and treat their patients aggressively and unpleasantly. At that moment, I realized that was exactly what had happened to me; that doctor presumed I had caused my baby’s death and that’s why she was so cold and harsh with me. I cried a lot when I understood this, felt deeply offended and hurt, regretted not being prepared to react at the time, for not standing up for myself, not demanding my rights, for humbling myself and begging for just one more day off, for being misjudged so harshly at one of the most delicate and painful moments of my life.
The biggest trauma of my miscarriage wasn’t the loss itself, but the way I was treated in the gynecology room, in front of so many insensitive and inhumane professionals. To think that trainees are already graduating with this mindset is appalling. I believe a doctor should treat every patient professionally and impartially, regardless of their personal beliefs or judgments. I believe that—even women who induce miscarriage have their own pain and suffering, and that no woman should be judged by appearances in a moment like this, but rather should receive proper care and guidance. Doctors are doctors, judges are judges.
I’ve been attended by the same professional during my second pregnancy; she was friendly and professional, but I can’t help but feel shaky and nervous whenever I see her. She always reassures me: “Your baby is fine, don’t be nervous,” but I’ve never managed to explain that what makes me nervous is simply seeing her face and remembering her neglect.
A few months later, a friend of mine went through a similar experience at another ER with a different doctor. But I had warned her, and she stood up for herself: “Listen here, you don’t know me, you don’t know my story, you have no right to judge me! I’m miscarrying a baby I deeply desired, not one I killed. It’s not for you to judge by appearances—you are a doctor, your job is to provide medical care, nothing else” and so on. I felt my dignity slightly restored by my friend’s reaction, but I’ll always carry the frustration of not having stood up for myself when I was cornered and intimidated by those who were supposed to support and care for me.
Have you heard of any case of obstetric violence? Then get in touch with me so we can broaden this important discussion that must be addressed and clarified in light of its importance. Share, comment, and spread this story!
Also see: Natural childbirth, the beauty of being a woman
Photo: European Parliament
