I was running late. A 25-minute trip took 40 and the clock was winding down until my 8 ‘o’ clock appointment for my Level II ultrasound. I met John in the parking lot and threw on the mask the security guard gave me at the front desk. We hurried into the waiting room and saw that other patients had already arrived. Flustered, I dutifully pulled out my referral order, license and insurance card to give to the receptionist. This was not my first rodeo.
John and I got settled and my heart rate began to calm down. We were excited to find out the sex of the baby and I had been eagerly awaiting this appointment. Our sonographer brought us back to our room and gave us the standard disclaimer about how she is unable to comment on anything she sees during the exam and that we would meet with a doctor afterwards. After some awkward rearranging, we were ready to begin. The gel was warm, and the images of our child popped onto the screen as soon as she placed the wand on my belly. I told the sonographer that I was always amazed at what they did. How they could view the black, white, and grey images and decode them like a cipher. We made small talk, and she pointed out various features and explained that she was measuring the belly, head, and various other body parts.
And then, silence…
The sonographer was concentrating on her screen with an intensity that I have never seen in my dozen plus ultrasounds. She kept returning to the heart, and taking picture, after picture, after picture.
I tried filling the silence with words, but even I grew quiet as the stifling atmosphere overwhelmed me. An inkling in the back of my mind began to form that something was wrong. Then seemingly out of nowhere, she cheerily interrupted my thoughts with the question “So, what do you think? Boy or girl?” The 180-degree turn threw me for a loop, but allayed my fears. “I think it’s a girl,” I responded. This has thankfully been a fairly easy pregnancy so far, similar to the pregnancies I had with Clementine and Genevieve so imagine my shock when she happily announced “It’s a BOY!”
I was so excited! John and I were led to the waiting room to wait for the doctor as we happily discussed this unexpected development.
The other couples got called back to see the doctor, and then finally it was our turn. The doctor brought us to her office and we sat down.
“Did you do any genetic testing for this pregnancy?” The doctor began. “No, I always decline to get testing done. Why?”
“We noticed a problem in your son’s heart,” the doctor continued. “Like a hole?” I asked. “I was born with a hole in my heart that needed to be repaired.”
“Not a hole” she replied, “The overall structure looks good, but there is a brightness when we look at the blood flow. It’s called echogenic foci. 1 out of every 100 to 200 healthy pregnancies has this. The reason why I bring it up is that it could be a marker for down syndrome. We have found that 50% of babies with down’s have this in their heart.”
Silence. My mind went blank as it tried to process this news. Finally, I replied, “So you would recommend I get some testing done?”
“I think you should get the blood test done to check for chromosomal abnormalities.” The doctor continued her explanation, but her words washed over me.
“Can I get it done today?”
“The nurses will take you back, and they can do it for you. The results should take about a week.”
The doctor put us in another waiting room while they got ready for us. Tears started falling down my cheeks, but I wiped them away. The nurses called us back. I’m able to pull myself together enough that I can resume my banter with the staff. One of the nurses recognized me from Clementine’s birth and we had a good time as they drew my blood, but in the back of my mind the silence remained.
It was then that I thought of all of the other mothers. The ones whose lives have been flipped on their heads in an instant, a routine appointment that turned into a miasma of uncertainty and disbelief. And my heart ached.
I thought of all those coming to DC today for the March for Life. Fighting to protect the vulnerable in the womb and how my son might be viewed as one of those undesirables in a week’s time. How the diagnosis of down syndrome is an automatic death sentence in places like Iceland. The light taps and kicks in my womb tried to reassure me.
I know that the only thing that can overcome this oppressive silence is truth. The power that silence holds can only be broken when we ourselves are outspoken. When we speak up for those without a voice and remind others of the humanity of a child in the womb. When we tell medical professionals that abortion is not healthcare. That the first words out of a doctor’s mouth when talking with a woman whose life has just been upended should be “here’s how I can help,” not “here’s where you can go to terminate this pregnancy.”
My hope is that all women who are suffering from an unexpected diagnosis will find peace. That they will find the strength to love and embrace their child no matter what. That they have a support system who can help them or find one if they don’t.
Because their child matters.
My child matters.
Regardless of the outcome in a week’s time, my son’s life has dignity and worth. He was meant to exist in this world, and his presence will help our family to grow in love and charity.
I can’t wait to meet him.