It either is, or it isn’t

Tomorrow, I will go in for my second level 2 ultrasound for this pregnancy. No stranger to what the medical community likes to call “high risk pregnancies,” I’ve navigated the waters of maternal fetal specialists for years now. I’ve learned to (mostly) downgrade their concerns, (mostly) follow my own gut, and (mostly) find peace in the midst of a process neither they nor I can control no matter how many gizmos or tests are involved.

But tomorrow will be a little different. Tomorrow, the doctor will be looking at something specific, something red flagged in our previous level 2. Tomorrow, the doctor will be making an in-depth examination of our baby’s heart.

Our last ultrasound was exactly what I expected, right up until the point when I realized that the tech– a very lovely woman with a sweet tea voice and a soothing demeanor– was spending more time than usual on some very nuanced bits of anatomy. Right around the time she congratulated herself on getting a full shot of our baby’s hand with his or her fingers extended, I felt my brow start to crease.

Folks, I have had a lot of ultrasounds. Never once have I had someone spend ten minutes angling the wand first here, then there, now up, slightly left, ok, around again … all in an attempt to get a clear picture of an open hand. Not once.

She moved on to the baby’s heart, taking frame after frame after frame. That’s a lot, I remember thinking. That’s more than usual. And why is she inserting that arrow icon?

Then there was the long process of getting exact, to the detail, precise measurements of the area behind the baby’s neck– commonly known as the nuchal fold.

And right there, when I said that, some of you nodded. You just knew. You have laid on that table, you have had that moment, and now you are sighing deeply and wanting to reach into cyberspace and set your hand on my shoulder.

But I still didn’t know. I still just waited, knowing that the tech had her hands tied, and it’s the doctor who pronounces all of the commandments, good and bad and indifferent. When he came in, looking for all the world like every other doctor in this land of golf who spends every spare moment following a white ball around a green, he was pleasant, and kind. He reminded me of my age (40, in case it had slipped my mind), he reminded me of my history (pre-term labor, bed rest, p17 shots, losses, multiple births, large babies, gestational diabetes), and then he asked me if I had seen the genetic counselor yet.

Which I hadn’t. My husband and I, having been led that route during out last “advanced maternal age” pregnancy, had no stomach for another round of mathematical roulette as it pertains to our “fetal tissue.” We had signed the paper declining the counseling and moved on.

“Hmmmm,” he nodded, flipping through the screenshot after screenshot of the baby I had only so recently come to know of. “And you missed your earlier scan? The nuchal translucency?”

Yes, I missed that. Not finding out that you’re pregnant until the halfway mark means you don’t exactly get to some of the diagnostics doctors think of as necessary in this age of machines and screens and computers that peek into your uterus.

Finally, he stopped on a still of my baby’s heart. The one with the arrow, I realized with dread.

“You see that? We call that a soft marker for Downs Syndrome.”

Those of you who know, those of you who have heard those words as your own hands fluttered over your swollen bellies … I don’t have to tell you what my own heart did at that moment. The rest of you will just have to imagine, because, well, there are no exact words to describe the mix of confusion and disbelief tinged with fear that that instant holds.

“Tell me what that means,” I managed, and he began to explain. Words flowed over me like water, and I found myself grabbing hold of the few things that seemed real and tangible in that dim room. Blood test. Nuchal measurement average. Bones formed normally in hand. Amniocentesis. Voluntary interruption of pregnancy candidate.

Twenty minutes later, I was spit back out, dazed and unsure of the firmness of the ground beneath my feet. I held my husband’s arm, I watched my 2 year-old doze off in his stroller, and I realized that no matter what a man with the credentials of a hundred medical societies behind his name said, I was blessed among women.

Because I am having a baby, you all.

And a baby is either a blessing, or it isn’t.

There is no in between.

I have lived enough life to know that any child that flutters in the womb is one of the greatest gifts a woman can receive. A baby after you’re 35? A miracle. A baby after 40? Honey, you are favored. Because God just doesn’t go around handing those out like Otter Pops on a hot day. They are the bonus round, the pressed down to overflowing, the “Here, my daughter. Take this, and enjoy.”

I walked into a cold, wet parking lot a little shaken, but still smiling at the handful of ultrasound images the tech had tucked under my arm as I slid from the table. Hello, little one. Hello, my blessing. Oh, you are beautiful. Not even born, and already beautiful.

After that earth shaking moment when I first heard the word “Downs,” we consented to a quad screen, a simple blood test that shot back some rough odds. The numbers, for what they are worth, came back in the favorable category; if you are the betting type, you’d expect to get a payout in the “no repeated chromosomes” column when this little one arrives on the scene. Of course, it is God who writes the story, not the computers that break down the genetic odds. Our logic in pursuing the testing, even though it is by far the least advanced or accurate, is that we figured a striking result would be incentive for us to dig deep into educating ourselves on parenting a newborn with the potential for health issues beyond what we’re familiar with, as well as making connections with more folks locally who could be a support network as we adventured into a new arena of parenting. I spoke with a dear friend who confirmed for me that there are far, far worse things than Downs. Far worse. She also reminded me that despite my shock in the moment, God was not surprised when an ultrasound found an anomaly in my baby’s heart. He still formed this baby’s innermost being, He still has plans, and so …

So tomorrow I go back for another look. Another chance to see waving hands and kicking feet. Another “avert your eyes or you’ll get the money shot!” as they check for girl/boy parts. Another chance to reaffirm that no matter what the diagnosis– Downs, a heart defect, nothing at all— I am not a candidate for a “voluntary interruption of pregnancy.”

Because either a baby is a blessing, or it’s not– no matter what the future holds. And I vote blessing, every time.