The final dose.

Dear Progesterone,

We’re done.

I never expected us to get together in the first place, to be honest.  We came from different worlds, I knew you had a bad reputation, I just wasn’t that interested.

But then I found myself feeling low, and you appeared.  You got under my skin and promised that you would take care of me. I couldn’t resist: we fit together so easily.  Before I knew it, you were inside of me.  And then we were seeing each other every day.  Twice a day, actually.  Oh, I broke it off once or twice.  Went two weeks without you, even, but I always came back to you.

Our relationship got comfortable, you kept your promises, you made me feel safe.  But there was the other side, too.  You always wanted to see me, I had to take you everywhere, I always had to clean up your messes.

Maybe this doesn’t seem fair.  I know that you’ve done most of the work in this relationship.  I’ve ignored your issues for a long time, and you’ve taken care of mine.  But I’m not sure that I need you anymore.  I think I can make it on my own.

Oh, come on, don’t get all mushy on me.  You’ll be fine.  We’ll both be fine.  I’m moving on.  And as for you?  Well, you know where you can shove it.



The final shot.

Common, if not normal.

First of all, thank you to all who told me to put down the Google.  I know that no good can come from sitting awake at 4am, reading internet forums from 2007.  I know.  All I learned from last night’s trip down that particular rabbit hole is that I may, in fact, be a more neurotic person than I had previously realized.  At least when it comes to the current state of my uterus.

Having sat up for the remainder of the night, slipping back into bed only ten minutes before the alarm went off, I was awake and ready to call Clinic One as soon as it opened.  The bleeding had stopped, it had never become more than spotting, but I was still desperately in need of some professional reassurance.  Now well practiced, I navigated the 87 subdirectories of their automated phone system with ease and left a message for the nurses.  A nurse called back almost instantly.  She was the same nurse, I believe, who had asked me if I felt foolish/fluish during my last cycle.  Her voice was reassuring as I mumbled about red blood, toilet paper and progesterone suppositories.  As soon as I paused for breath she interjected, “I can’t say it’s normal… but it is very common.”  She explained that I should monitor for more bleeding, but shouldn’t come in unless the bleeding became much heavier or more continuous.  Which, thankfully, it didn’t.

I did have a bit more spotting this evening, but it was even less than before and has stopped again.  In the warm light of my house at this reasonable hour, I’m less afraid.  I’m going to try my very best to stay calm and rational.  I may try to block Google on my computer.  And, if I wake up at 3am to pee, I’ll leave the lights off.

TMI, on repeat.

At three in the morning I stumbled downstairs to the bathroom, half-asleep.  Wiping, I was suddenly wide awake: there was bright red blood.

I consider myself to be a fairly logical person.  I know:

a) A lot of people bleed, particularly during early pregnancy, particularly on progesterone, and still have healthy pregnancies.

b) My ridiculously high beta numbers are a good sign.

c) There’s nothing I can do if things aren’t okay.

But none of this is stopping me from still being wide awake two hours later, Googling and afraid.