I met with Dr. A. three days ago for my pregnancy confirmation appointment, at 7.5 weeks. My blood pressure? Sky high when the medical assistant took it. As usual, I was huffing and puffing having just gotten back to the exam room and that was after they took my weight which pissed me off because I was 228.
It was weird being back. Mostly because I thought the last time I walked out of there three years ago I wouldn’t be back.
He was happy to see me and didn’t seem at all surprised that I was back and pregnant again. I didn’t trust myself to really tell him everything because my sonofabitch pregnancy hormones were making me want to sob all over his desk. He entertained me with birth stories for a while before going back over my past medical history.
This man is the most humble doctor I’ve ever known and he has people traveling from four hours away because he’s the one you want if you want a VBAC, particularly if you’ve had 3 prior C-sections, or have a special scar. Even with me, with my preeclampsia and my apparent one layer of dissolvable stitches, there was no way any other provider would have let me have a VBAC and be induced over the period of four days. He was the only one I trusted to deliver Emelia and he’s the only one I trust to care for me during this pregnancy and bring this baby into the world.
The only thing was there was a sign out in the front waiting area saying he now is only on call 50% of the time and he has two other MDs he works with that share call the other 50%. Which of course was giving me a mild heart attack because…I mean, it has to be him. My labor and delivery were so complicated and I was terrified of having anyone else.
He assured me they were great doctors who shared his philosophy of birth and VBACs. “You’ll like them much better than me!” he joked.
He recommended we run a progesterone level to see where it’s at because of my miscarriage history which I agreed to without thinking much about it. At the end of the appointment, he checked my blood pressure again and it was 136/86 which he said was much better so he didn’t need to put me on blood pressure meds (yet).
The next afternoon, I got a call from one of his PAs, the only one of three I haven’t met yet.
“Your progesterone is low, like, really low,” she told me.
I asked her what it was and she said it was 7 and they want to see it at, I think, 21?
I mean, no crap. Of course, I have low progesterone. I suck at making babies, what did she expect? She asked me if I was ever on progesterone injections with my other pregnancies.
“Um, yeah like a bajillion of them,” I said, harsher than I intended, “I did IVF, so I always had to be on progesterone.” I wondered if she had even read my chart.
She asked I I would take injections due to my very low progesterone.
I could feel my heart beating faster. Feeling slightly out of breath, I told her, “I’m sorry. I experienced a lot of trauma with my fertility treatments and I’m not willing to do any more progesterone injections.” I was horrified when tears sprung from my eyes. I can’t, I told her, I’m sorry, but I can’t.
I asked if suppositories could be an option.
Suppositories aren’t as effective as the injections, she said. I could tell the conversation was tripping her up. My guess is she doesn’t get a lot of women refusing progesterone working at a pro-life clinic.
There was back and forth, me telling her (and feeling more stupid by the minute) that I can’t do these injections and her telling me with progesterone this low I was at risk of losing the baby.
“I understand you want me to do whatever it takes to save this baby, but I’m telling you even this conversation is bringing back a lot of trauma and I told myself back then I would never take another progesterone injection.” I knew she didn’t know what to say to me. I get it. I added that I don’t even know if this baby was even alive and my ultrasound was on Monday. She told me again that I could consider the injections “so you could know you did everything possible.” It was kind of sort of left at that. I walked across the hall where Chris was working and told him and then I sobbed.
I didn’t want this first trimester of my spontaneous pregnancy to be filled with interventions. If this baby was really meant to be, was really supposed to come home with us, then this baby would come. But now? I feel like a fertility patient all over again and that was enough to make it hard to breathe. I felt I was being guilted into progesterone, which was especially difficult to accept because any other clinic I went to wouldn’t have drawn a progesterone for a spontaneous pregnancy. Even in the waiting room of this clinic, the only paperwork I had to fill out was consent for progesterone, which I thought was strange, but of course, didn’t think much of at the time.
If I didn’t take the progesterone, then it was on me if I lost the baby. To them, I needed to put my own feelings aside and do everything I could for the baby. What I wanted didn’t matter. This was a pro-life clinic and my baby was more important.
My therapist told me later that what I was experiencing was a trauma reaction.
The next morning, Friday, I got out of bed and put my big girl pants on. Figuratively speaking. “I can do this,” I told Chris. I was stronger than the injections. Stronger than my trauma. I could do the mother fucking injections for a few weeks. Twice a week, to be exact. I squared my shoulders and called the clinic.
The PA called back that afternoon and was happy about my change of heart. “So you can be assured you’re doing everything possible,” she said again. Did I want to come into the clinic for my first injection that afternoon? She recommended with my levels to do both the injections and the suppositories, which she placed the order. I told her I would do this initial injection, but then I wanted to wait to order anything until after we’ve confirmed a heartbeat. “I agree,” she said enthusiastically, “Just to make sure everything is healthy.” If the baby was still there, I could get another progesterone injection.
Chris was surprised at my change of heart.
I shrugged. “I’ve been through worse.”
Turns out it wasn’t one shot but two.
I looked down at what the nurse was holding and saw two filled syringes on my chart. “Two?” I asked.
Yes, because they didn’t have the correct dosage in the clinic so they had to give me two injections to get the right amount. Great. Fantastic. I’m stronger than my past trauma and all that shit.
Turns out, being shot up in the butt is (quite literally) muscle memory. It was like no time had passed. I knew how to stand, to take the weight off my foot and turn it slightly inward. Two shots. One in each buttcheek.
This baby better be worth it.
