It was the first Saturday of February, two days after my birthday. Tom had to work all weekend. He'd left on Friday and wouldn't be back until Sunday evening. All three of the kids had swimming lessons, which meant only trouble for me. I couldn't walk into the YMCA without waves of nausea sending me to the bathroom. Today I'd have to suck it up.
I dressed Timmy and pleaded with the girls to get ready. Lyn came out of the bathroom.
"I just got sick."
I didn't really believe her. We climbed into the van and headed for Target. I needed to buy swim diapers for Timmy before going to the Y, and the girls needed Valentine's cards for their class. Not having time to browse, we hurried through the store. As we stood in line at the cash register, Lyn complained of a stomachache and was looking greener by the second.
We weren't going to make it to the Y.
Lyn spent the next three days vomiting and barely eating. Two days into her flu, Timmy came down with it. Timmy didn't have as good of aim as his mom or sister. He got sick on the carpet, on the couch, in bed, pretty much anywhere except for the metal bowl that I held in front of him. Tom came down with a mild case of it. He felt 'off,' but didn't actually become sick.
By the time Valentine's Day rolled around, the house reeked of vomit. Lyn was better, Timmy was on the mend, and I was catching it.
For three days, I barely touched food. I'd somehow managed to gain three pounds over the course of the pregnancy and I was back to zero. When I finally recovered from it, it was the dog's turn to be sick. When he gets sick, it's a huge pile of nasty. He left several piles for me.
And then it was the cat's turn. Lesa somehow didn't get sick.
During this time, I was still debating the shots.
"I can give them to you," Tom said. "I'd be willing to take off work to learn how to do it."
I glared at him. "You do realize that it wasn't very long ago that you came at me with something long and hard, right? That's precisely why I'm in this situation."
"Stop with the jokes. I can do this."
"Really, you can't. I can't trust that you'll be here every weekend to give me the shot. Besides, if it hurts as badly as I've been told it does, I'll resent you and I don't think that will be good for either of us. I'll check with my obstetrician to see if maybe they can do it for me."
I put in a call to the doctor's office the next day.
"Hi, Rebekah," I said to the receptionist. "I am supposed to start taking progesterone shots. My insurance won't cover the cost of a nurse coming to the house to give me them. The specialist won't allow me to have the shots there. I really can't depend on my husband to do this since he sometimes has to travel on the weekends. I know that if I have to give the shot to myself, I will need to have an "X" tattooed on my butt so I know where to inject the stuff. And I'll need a really hot firefighter or paramedic to rescue me when I crack my head against the floor from fainting from giving myself the shot."
She laughed.
"Is there any way that I can get the shot at your office?"
"You should not give yourself the shot because it's a difficult shot to give. It's really thick. We can give it to you. Your appointments are on Fridays?"
"Yes." Thank god. I was relieved that they were willing to do this. I'd been really impressed with the office thus far and this let me know once again that I'd chosen a great practice. The specialist's office had said the regular OB probably wouldn't do it. Sometimes, all it takes is asking. It probably helped to mention the hot firefighter.
"We'll schedule you for Fridays then so you won't have to come back on different days. If you have the medicine now, we can schedule you for this Friday at ten."
I took the appointment. Hopefully the shots wouldn't be as bad as everyone said they were.
