Sabrina
Ishould have left Gabe in Maplewood. He was being too nice. Too supportive. I preferred difficult people. They made sense, they were predictable, and I had a lifetime of experience managing them. Kind people? Too unpredictable.
He’d arrived this morning with my favorite latte, a breakfast sandwich, and a smile for my mother.
As Harper would say, it was suss.
Gabe insisted on driving the ninety minutes to Burlington. I wouldn’t admit it, but I was relieved. While he navigated his Jeep cautiously, I caught up on emails and attempted to calm my raging anxiety. I may have done a little too much online research about this procedure.
I was now familiar with the statistical risks of infection, miscarriage, and preterm birth. The litigation history of two manufacturers too. And I had accidentally joined a Reddit thread called “Mirena Miracles” populated by parents who had been through this situation. I’d ugly cried several times.
The sooner I got this ineffective IUD out, the better.
The doctor’s office was part of the UVM medical campus rather than a historic home or a squat building downtown in so many small communities.
It felt nice to be in a city for once. It wasn’t a real city; this was still Vermont, after all.
But Burlington was vibrant and artsy and smelled like coffee and fresh lake water, and the streets were filled with bookstores, murals, and shops selling ethically sourced knitwear.
“I’m Dr. Moss.” The high-risk ob-gyn was tall and capable-looking with short gray hair and a bright smile.
She started off by reviewing the procedure, which would start with a transvaginal ultrasound to confirm viability, heartbeat, gestational age, and the placement of the IUD.
“Then,” she said, “if the strings remain accessible, I will remove the IUD with real-time ultrasound guidance.” Her tone was confident and reassuring.
“Given the placement sent over from your primary care physician, this should be quick and easy. If things are more complicated, we may have to sedate you for a more in-depth procedure.”
I nodded, my hands going clammy.
“Once it’s removed, you can expect some cramping and spotting. You should follow up with your doctor after two weeks to confirm that everything is on track.”
“Anything we should be looking out for?” Gabe asked thoughtfully.
Of course he asked that. I’d spent the time I wasn’t working on the drive here catastrophizing while he’d shifted into a calm state usually reserved only for monks.
“Yes. Call us immediately if you experience heavy bleeding, fluid leakage, or fever.”
I looked at Gabe, the blood draining from my face.
“And realistically, what’s the miscarriage risk after removal?” he asked.
“Low,” she said. “But not zero.”
My fingertips went numb and my throat tightened, making it hard to breathe. The room was too cold and too bright.
“But,” she said with a smile, “once we confirm positioning, we will have a better idea. Here is the informed consent paperwork for you to sign.” She pointed to the gown on the table. “I’ll give you a few minutes to review and change before we get started.”
With that, she was gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
I couldn’t move.
“Sabrina?”
I couldn’t speak. Or lift my head. I just stared at my hands. This baby was real now. Wanted. Mine.
And the thought that she could be hurt? It felt like my heart was cracking inside my chest.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around me. “I’m here,” Gabe said softly into my hair. “You can do this. Just one step at a time.”
When I’d finally found the strength to stand, he turned around, giving me privacy while I slipped into the gown and settled myself on the exam table. The paper crinkled beneath me as I scooted back, trying to breathe while fighting back tears.
“What if something happens?” I croaked. “According to this paperwork, the trauma to the uterus could cause iatrogenic pregnancy loss.”
“It won’t.” He zeroed in on me, intense. “You’re Sabrina Fucking Monroe. You are an overachiever through and through. That extends to the capabilities of your uterus. Yanking out a tiny piece of plastic isn’t going to change anything.”
“I did get pregnant with an IUD,” I offered.
He smiled. “See? This uterus ignored birth control. An aggressive overachiever if I ever saw one.”
Dr. Moss came back and fired up the ultrasound machine, surprising me by squirting gel onto my stomach. “We’ll start abdominally first,” she said, sparing me the vaginal wand, also known as the world’s least dignified medical device.
“Okay, here we are,” she said, doing that clicking and measuring thing Dr. Storrow had done. “See that heartbeat? Strong and fast, around one-seventy. Exactly what we want.”
Tearing up, I drank in every detail of the gray blur on screen. “Hello again,” I whispered. She was there. Beating strong. The beautiful little flutter.
The room was silent while the doctor measured and clicked and measured some more. I was in awe. Last time, I hadn’t understood what I was looking at, but now? The gray blobs made sense. And there was a tiny person in there.
“You’re measuring at eight weeks and five days.”
Gabe hovered next to my head, staring at the screen, tears streaming down his cheeks.
The sight stole the breath from my lungs.
“We did this?” he whispered, ducking his head.
We locked eyes, and for the first time since my life had imploded and I’d come back to Maplewood, I didn’t feel alone.
“Here is the device,” Dr. Moss explained.
Sure enough, the tiny T showed up on the screen.
“The good news is that the strings are visible, so it’s easily accessible. Looks like it was knocked out of position. Are you ready for removal?”
“Yes,” I said.
The nurse in yellow scrubs who had been silently standing by the door pushed a table over, the steel instruments on it clinking softly.
My stomach dropped and my heart raced. It was time.
She took the ultrasound wand and moved it around on my belly so that the strings were centered on the screen.
Doctor Moss got into position, raising the table, and held up what looked like a long, skinny pair of tongs. “These are my forceps. I’m going to insert them, find the strings, get sufficient traction, and then pull the IUD out.”
Gabe stood next to me, holding my hand, his breathing shallow.
“Please stay perfectly still,” she instructed.
The room went completely silent except for the whooshing sound of the baby’s heartbeat on the ultrasound.
I closed my eyes, praying that everything would be okay.
“You will feel a strong tug.”
A sharp sting spread low through my abdomen.
And a moment later, she put the IUD into the metal pan with a plink.
“Okay. The device is out. Let’s check the baby.”
The nurse manipulated the ultrasound wand so that we could see the sac again, and eventually, after what felt like hours, the flickering heartbeat.
“Heartbeat looks good,” she said.
“Excellent,” Dr. Moss confirmed. “Very strong.”
I exhaled, and my head rushed. Shit. I’d been holding my breath for far too long. I put my head back against the table, staring at the ceiling as my brain tried to tell my nervous system that it was all okay. It was over.
But my heart still raced and my hands shook; I was still so damn scared.
“Remember,” Dr. Moss said, stripping off her latex gloves. “Rest for twenty-four hours and call me if you experience anything other than mild cramping or light spotting. The heartbeat is great, the gestational sac is in perfect position. Just take care of yourself.”
“We will. Thank you,” Gabe said, speaking when I could not.
“And while this pregnancy does come with a higher risk for miscarriage than average, many patients go on to deliver healthy babies after removal.”
My stomach couldn’t drop any farther. Higher risk?
My entire career had revolved around eliminating risk. I’d created an identity set around controlling outcomes and preventing damage.
Now I had to spend the next thirty-one weeks just hoping that everything was okay? There was no strategy for this. No game plan. No regimen of prenatal vitamins, green juice, or meditation that would fix this. I’d just have to wing it.
I was the queen of crisis. But I was already falling apart. And that terrified me more than any medical complication.
“Congratulations.” Smiling, she stepped out of the room.
When we were alone, Gabe looked down at me, smiling wide, his eyes still teary.
“That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced.” He sniffled. “That heartbeat? You weren’t lying. Strong.” With a shuddering breath, he squeezed my hand. “Thank you for letting me be here.”
He was so handsome, even when his face was tearstained. But it took everything I had to force a smile. He looked so overwhelmed with joy, but wasn’t he terrified too?
On the way home, I reclined the seat a little and closed my eyes, attempting to process. He, on the other hand, chattered all the way back to Maplewood, going on about the maple cams, the recall, and a new tubing supplier for the farm.
“I don’t want you alone tonight,” he said. “We’ve got to keep an eye out for fever or heavy bleeding.”
“I’m not alone. I’m staying at my mom’s.”
“Can I stay too?”
Breath catching, I turned to him.
“On the couch,” he clarified. “I don’t want to intrude. I just…” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “I’d feel better being there. In case you need something. Or in case something feels wrong.”
My instinct was to tell him to go to hell. But I had a feeling my mother would tsk at me if I did.
The cat was out of the bag at this point, so there was no use hiding. And while I was technically capable of both self-reflection and honesty, those skills were just out of reach at the moment. The idea of being alone after this, of worrying and waiting for something terrible, was unbearable.
Also, there was a chance his calm presence could stop me from spending the night doomscrolling PubMed and convincing myself I was moments away from a septic miscarriage.
“Fine,” I said.
The corner of his mouth lifted, revealing that crooked smile I couldn’t get out of my head. “I’ll get pizza,” he said. “And we can watch one of those angry woman movies you love.”
I huffed a breath. “How do you know I love angry woman movies?”
“You once lectured Mr. McMillian after school about why Legally Blonde was a feminist masterpiece and how Elle Woods’s academic and intellectual excellence was misunderstood.”
How did he know that? I didn’t even remember the exact moment, but it sounded like me. Apparently Gabe had the power to remember things even I’d forgotten about myself.
“How about 10 Things I Hate About You?” I asked softly.
“And extra black olives?” he responded.
“How do you know what I like on my pizza?”
“Eh. I pay attention.” He lifted a shoulder casually. “And Tony is a good friend.”
I studied his profile, trying to arrange these new facts in my head. Had Gabe been paying far closer attention than I’d ever given him credit for?
For how long?
It was strange and a little too domestic for my comfort.
“Yes. Anything you want, Monroe.” That damn grin persisted. “Doctor’s orders. You’re medically required to eat pizza and verbally abuse fictional men.”
I fixed my eyes on the road, fighting the urge to smile.
“It’s weird, being congratulated.”
“Yeah?” he asked gently.
“I was bracing for the public humiliation, the memes, and the TikToks. But someone edited our fight to a Taylor Swift song.”
“Which one are you talking about? ‘My Tears Ricochet’ or ‘Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me’?” He waggled his brows. “Did you see the campaign poster?” A laugh rushed out of him. “Harding/Monroe for Mayor. Bipartisan Sexual Tension.”
I giggled. “I may get the one that says ‘Live, Laugh, Labor’ over a photo of me screaming and clamping the tubing.”
“You deserve congratulations,” he said, his eyes twinkling with genuine delight.
I shook my head. “Usually, when people congratulate me, it’s for winning.
For being a badass. For accomplishing things.
” Ducking, I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
“This is strange. Being congratulated for having snowed-in hate sex with the small-town mayor and getting pregnant with the next generation of angry women?”
“Hey,” Gabe said seriously. “You’re creating a life. That may be the most badass accomplishment in existence. And that little angry woman in there is amazing,” he said softly. “I’m proud of you both.”