In high school I helped a classmate perform a monologue about a mother grieving her infant at the child’s gravesite. I can’t remember whether I was a teacher’s assistant for this class or if I was taking it for credit myself, but what I do recall is that instinctively I knew what that mother would feel like. I confidently coached my friend in ways she could improve her monologue because I *felt* the mother’s pain. Was I was a mother who had lost her baby? No! Far from it. But there’s always been this nugget inside me that intuits what others are feelings and feels deeply with them.

I’m going to blame this level of empathy on why I dislike visiting the the ObGyn’s office. 

I am now a grown up with health insurance, a mortgage, a favorite Valvoline, and a much better understanding of what it feels like to lose a little one. And at this point of my life I am well aware of this empathetic soul that I lug around that sometimes makes being around people in pain almost excruciating. I have a hard time turning it off. Empathy is a gift that I cannot wait to hand back to the Lord someday in glory, saying, “Thank you. I’m done with this. It was the weightiest of gifts.”

Walking in the door of the ObGyn’s office is never a simple task for someone who has dealt with infertility and miscarriage. Nope, a thousand different memories flood my senses when I enter the doors and wait for the receptionist to ask for my insurance card. My practitioner has switched offices—and while I’m thankful to never be trapped in that 1970’s era waiting room without windows again, the muscle memory is enough to overwhelm me. I remember every ultrasound, every blood draw, every visit filled with hope, fear, grief, and even mundane moments. It’s all there, but not only is it a space for my memories, it’s a space where other women are walking through their own tales. And I find that mix of stories both compelling and challenging.

I wish there were separate buildings for pregnant and non-pregnant women. Separate waiting rooms perhaps. But I know that wouldn’t solve the problem because some women are pregnant happily while plenty of others are not. There’s the gal who just received a trisomy 13 diagnosis and she looks around marveling that anyone else could be joyfully pregnant right now. There’s the other woman who has no idea how she is going to pay for diapers for this latest “blessing.” There’s the client lying that she has insurance but just forgot the card, who is desperately trying to figure out how she will make ends meet next month, but that’s next month’s problem. And surely there are a thousand different women between utterly joyful and in the worst of spots, many of whom are just running in for a quick checkup on their baby—which truly never is quick—before carrying out other tasks in their days. 

Aside from the obviously pregnant women, the waiting room is filled with everyone else, from 16 year olds who are dealing with pain to octogenarians who are paying someone to check out parts they not only cannot see but also cannot diagnose as healthy or unhealthy. Women. We come in all stripes and all colors and while getting a gynecological exam is the farthest thing from “fun” it is quite necessary to stay well. Mingled in with the baby bumps are women experiencing hot flashes (note: they’re probably carrying their coats), women who’ve found a lump, women who feel 100% fine but aren’t, and women who feel 100% sure they’re not fine but they actually are. 

All stories are found in this cold sterile space.

The nervous laughter while getting a blood draw meets up with stony silence in the hallway where another walks in nervously for a breast exam.

The mother relieved to see her little one via ultrasound lays on the table where another mother was just informed that no heartbeat can be found.

Within these walls there is death and there is life, and there is every shade of existence in between. 

A run into the ObGyn’s office is never ever a clearcut thing for someone like me, someone with the heavy gift of empathy.