After My Baby Died, I Saw 4 Words On A Standard Form At The Doctor’s Office That Stopped Me Cold

A minute later, the sound of my name pulled me out of my daze. The nurse stood at the doorway, hand outstretched for my paperwork, and I followed her to a cold vinyl chair. All I wanted was to see our baby on the ultrasound screen and make sure she was still there. “You forgot to answer one of these questions,” the nurse said as she turned to me. 

“I didn’t forget,” I said. “I just didn’t have an answer.” I paused, letting the silence fall around us. “Yes, I’m anxious, sometimes debilitatingly so. But no, it’s not for ‘no good reason.’” 

Her eyes scanned my obstetric history on the monitor, and I saw the realization settle in. She looked at me with a startled recognition and nodded.

“You’re right,” she said softly. “It’s a poorly worded question.” 

At that moment, her words felt both like validation and an indictment — confirmation that the lingering fear and panic inside me was real, but also a reminder of how easily grief and anxiety can slip through the cracks of these checkboxes that are designed to measure them.

I soon learned why. The Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale was developed in 1987 to identify postnatal depression, and only later was it used to detect anxiety disorders through three “subscale” questions, one of which was the question that stopped me in my tracks.

I’m still not sure whether the Edinburgh Scale was given to me that day because I had recently experienced a pregnancy loss, or if it was given to me simply because I was a newly pregnant patient coming in for my first OB check. Either way, what struck me most was that, up until then, there had been no systematic effort to check on my state of mind in the wake of such a devastating loss. Between that heartwrenching day when we lost our first daughter and this new appointment where we were meant to be meeting our second, I had multiple touchpoints with the hospital system, yet never once was my grief measured in any meaningful way: scientific, psychological, or otherwise. 

Had anyone asked how I was doing? Yes, of course. But those questions were fleeting, tossed into the space between lab results and next steps. And in those rushed exchanges, what else could I say but the easy answers, “Fine, I’m getting by,” words that required nothing of them, words that easily allowed the moments to keep moving along. Doctors nodded, shared their heartfelt condolences, and then the conversation quickly shifted. The rawness of my loss slipped quietly back into the shadows while we focused on the future and getting my body ready for another try. 

If I had stopped any of the doctors and nurses on my care team and asked whether I had reason to be anxious, they likely would have answered with a resounding yes. But then again, I knew how fortunate I was. I was being seen by the top fertility specialists and obstetricians in my area. I had the support of my husband, who was experiencing this grief alongside me, along with our amazing family and great friends who stood close as we navigated our way through it.