I sat in the passenger’s seat of my partner’s car still in the hospital garage and called my doctor’s office. “Hi, I just left. Dr. A gave me a referral for a high-risk doctor. I just called and they don’t take my insurance.” The nurse apologized, told me they’d take care of it, and send me a referral to my email for someone who would take my insurance and assured me I could go on about my day. A few hours later, I got the email. They were kind enough to schedule an appointment for me, but there was one problem. In addition to me only having packed enough for the weekend, it was Friday the 5th and one appointment was booked for the 18th. How was I supposed to make a decision in a week if I can’t even see the high-risk doctor for THIRTEEN days!?

My partner didn’t want to tell anyone until I decided what I was going to do. I needed to talk to my mother. After all, I had just moved back in with her. I needed to know she was in my corner. But I didn’t want to have that conversation over the phone. I had already consulted a friend who had gone the termination route with no regrets. She said there was no right or wrong decision, only a decision that was best for me at this time. With those words, I knew I needed to call my mom. I wanted to tell her when I took the test in the house, but my partner was too scared. Now I was three hours away trying to seek her guidance over the phone.

My mom, having experienced both giving birth and termination, assured me I’d have her support with either decision. She reaffirmed that the choice had to be my own. She shared her concerns about my mental health. The same concerns I had myself.

What would I do with a baby when my depression hit?

How cluttered would my apartment become?

Could I become a more organized person in a matter of months?

It was a long and awkward weekend filled with me taking trips to the car to talk to my mom without his family overhearing. I declined birthday drinks while out with a friend even though the bar was giving them out free. I even had a few nights of my partner running out to grab me something to eat at 3 am. I pushed through it knowing I’d have an ultrasound Monday morning and hopefully at least find out how far along I was. That Monday morning, I dropped my partner off at work and took the 40-minute drive to the high-risk ultrasound facility the nurses scheduled me to visit. I arrived 20 minutes early as suggested, only to be told at check-in that I needed prior authorization—I was distraught. I called my gynecologist’s office and they contacted the insurance company. The ultrasound facility rescheduled me for an appointment that Wednesday to give time for them to receive the prior authorization. It was all too much! I wasn’t scheduled to see my therapist until Thursday of the following week. I didn’t want to share any of this with her until I had made a clear decision. So I text the crisis text line. I shared via text with a complete stranger what I was going through! I was out of clean clothes, with less than five days left to make an informed decision, and insurance was blocking me at every turn from getting the information I needed to make that decision. I had a partner who said they’d support whatever decision I made, but was clearly still grieving a termination from a previous relationship. And I was dealing with all of this while three hours away from my own family, where I could receive familiar comfort. But instead, I was suffering in silence, not wanting to give his family a reason to ask “What’s wrong?”

After the crisis text-line calmed me down, I contacted the high-risk obstetrician to inquire about having my appointment for the 18th moved up. I explained to the angel assisting me, Sam, that my doctor said I only had one week to make a move and the 18th was just too late. Sam let me know that if there were any cancellations they would squeeze me in– It was such a reassuring phone call. Sam gave me A+ customer service, except one thing— when I called and said “I’m pregnant” before I could get out the rest of my concerns, Sam said “CONGRATULATIONS!” A greeting I wasn’t ready to receive as a woman experiencing an unplanned pregnancy, who had not yet decided on whether or not I was going to carry full term.

In fact, that word continued to trigger me. I wondered, “Is it professional for healthcare providers to say congratulations? Or am I just being too sensitive?” I thought about women who found out they had become pregnant after sexual assault, or who knew for sure they were going to terminate, and how one little word, spoken with such enthusiasm, could trigger guilt and shame and questions and so many feelings opposite its intent. That Wednesday, I called the ultrasound place early in the morning as they suggested; still no prior authorization. Fortunately, Sam was able to fit me in with the obstetrician that afternoon. It was a nice office in the same building as my gynecologist. The appointment was after the office had lunch, so things were pretty slow when we got there. I was able to thank Sam in person for accommodating my time-sensitive matter. A great nurse practitioner and med student handled the intake process, got my background, weight, and vitals, then the doctor came in. He was an older white man. I was honest with him about my concerns. The fibroids, the abnormally shaped uterus, the mental impact, the poverty. ALL OF IT! My partner sat beside me, answering any questions directed at him, he texts me, “I don’t like him.”

Something about this provider made him uncomfortable. He suggested putting me on mood stabilizers even though my therapist never saw my condition as severe enough for meds. I gave him the envelope from my gynecologist, and he found a matter of concern. She had written two separate terms about the condition of my uterus and they had very different meanings. She also apparently provided hand-drawn images (I’m assuming that’s why she referred me elsewhere for an ultrasound, but again, prior authorization). The obstetrician told us we could have an ultrasound in his office to clear up the septate v. arcuate uterus issue, but it couldn’t be done that day. I reminded him that I was told I only had a week, now 2 days, to make a decision and asked how soon they could fit me in. He said it was wrong for anyone to give me the impression that such a decision needed to be made with such urgency. That was the most comforting thing he said the whole appointment. The ultrasound was still critical to my decision, it would help the obstetrician tell me how far along I was, the severity of my uterus’ condition, the impact my fibroids would have on fetal development and ultimately, whether keeping the pregnancy be a bigger threat to my health than early termination.

The friend I had consulted with advised me not to look at the screen during the ultrasound. She left me with the best words of advice I had received at the time. “There is NO right or wrong decision, just a decision that is best for YOU. At. THIS. time.” That alleviated any shame I had about leaning toward termination. I only wish she had told me to cover my ears while I closed my eyes. I went back for the ultrasound the following week. Endured another cheerful “Congratulations!” from the ultrasound tech, along with her narration of all her findings. “There’s the heartbeat! It’s like a little gummy bear in there!” And there was no way I could feel comfortable choosing to terminate after hearing the heartbeat. No matter how unprepared I felt.