During the next couple months, I experienced frightening episodes of sporadic and
inexplicable hemorrhaging. I attributed it to the daily stress that was somehow affecting
my hormonal system and dealt with it myself, without sharing the incidents with anyone.
Especially not with Charles.
One Sunday, I took the girls next door to visit my neighbor, Esther Rubin. We were
seated at her dining room table when I felt a gush like someone had turned on a faucet.
Totally unnerved and embarrassed, I made a mad rush for her bathroom, hoping I wasn’t
leaving a bloody trail behind me. Again, I didn’t share the cause of my abrupt departure
from the table.
When the episodes happened with increasing regularity over the next three weeks, I
knew I had to take action. One thing was certain. I wasn’t pregnant and in the throes of a
miscarriage. Fretting over my dilemma one more weekend, I finally reached for the
Yellow Pages to look up the number for our family doctor, Dr. Vinetz, who was a
wonderful and compassionate man. I trusted his opinion.
“What you’re describing isn’t normal, Carol,” he said, after listening to the
enumeration of my symptoms. “We’d better take a look and see what’s going on.”
The very next day, I was on his examining table with his sweet assistant Fanny
holding my hand. Dr. Vinetz poked around for what seemed like an eon and then inserted
a stainless-steel speculum. “Does this hurt? Do you feel pressure when I do this? How
Finally he stepped away from the table, pulled off his vinyl gloves, and seated himself
on a stool next to me. “I’m not at all happy with what I was able to see with the
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