After another sleepless night, my husband and my mom took me to the closest emergency room. I took a Benadryl but didn’t sleep a wink. But two days later, my panic was at an all-time high-physical, visceral, heart-pounding terror. Terrified by the similarity, I had gone back on my anxiety medication a week before, 20 milligrams of Celexa, which had seemed to help with my generalized anxiety disorder in the past. Then the nausea hit, a driving, urgent queasiness reminiscent of my first pregnancy, which had relegated me to bed for weeks before it ended at three months. At first, I had felt excited, if tentative. My previous three pregnancies had ended in miscarriage, all within one particularly brutal nine-month period. Two weeks earlier, I had found out I was pregnant for the fourth time. My eyes were completely glazed over, and I vacillated between feeling fascinated by my numbness and wondering how much longer I would live. The doctor said his name was Lipton, “like the tea.” He pantomimed drinking, pinky up, as I laid back on the hospital bed. My Abortion Patients Are All Struggling in the Same Exact WayĪ Polio Survivor Has a Warning About the Virus’s Resurgence The Government Is Pinching Pennies on COVID NowĪnthony Fauci’s Credibility Did Not Survive the Pandemic
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