What Doesn't Kill You...

It's a girl!

That's what we learned during our big ultrasound survey yesterday.  As usual, the technician warned us that she couldn't make any diagnoses because she is not a doctor.  Then she commenced her imaging and measuring, which lasted well over an hour.  Baby girl (or "Trouble" as we call her in honor of the half a dozen scares she's given us already and her tendency to hide from the ultrasound) was wedged down deep in the uterus with her face smooshed right into the placenta.  The tech had a lot of difficulty getting the shots she was looking for.

We left happy.  At least Trouble had all ten fingers and all ten toes.  We left cheerful.  We both are thrilled at the idea of raising sisters.  We left optimistic.  It was a beautiful day and baby was active and kicking all the time.

It wasn't until later that evening, as I was driving Elsie home during rush hour, that I got the call from my midwife.  I was a bit shaken up as I had just placed a legitimate 911 call for an electrical fire that broke out at the top of a telephone pole right over my car in Arlington Center.  I'm adamantly against driving on cell phones, even with hands-free kits, but I really wanted to take this call, so I pulled over and answered the phone.

That is how I learned that I don't just have a baby girl, I have a baby girl who may or may not have :
- A club foot
- A Down's Syndrome marker
- A brain abnormality

Just what every mom wants to hear.

Connie was measured in her tone and told me she always seeks a second opinion from a big hospital that handles a lot of cases like these.  She encouraged me to stay calm for the moment and reserve judgment, just to get myself to the appointment that she booked for the following afternoon.

I am learning not to freak out.  I remember when the doctor told me that Elsie had something like a 1 in 50 chance of having Down's.  I burst into hysterics on the spot.  I've been through a lot of false alarms since then.  Here, being told I might have three kinds of  disability on my hands, I managed to maintain my composure for the entire evening.  Didn't sleep a wink, though.

Hub is truly outstanding at the very worst of times.  He offered the right amount of reassurance and the right amount of worry.  He listened to what I had to get off my chest.  We talked about the hard stuff.  The conversations we've had a few times before, once before we got married, once before trying for each child, and once when Elsie was dubbed "high risk."  It feels so good to know time and time again that we are a team in these moments.

Hub took me to the appointment this afternoon.  The ultrasound alone took over an hour and a half.  Trouble does not cooperate for ultrasounds.  The beauty of a large hospital is that you get your feedback right away.  No waiting for phone calls. After a long preliminary survey by the tech, the doctor walks in, slaps some more jelly on your tum, waves the wand, and tells you, right then, what's up.

"Everything looks totally fine." 


***


"How confident is he?" I asked the very cheerful genetic counselor in our consultation.


"Very confident."  She told me.  "It may sound bad, but if someone else sees a possible problem, and you say it's not there, it looks REALLY bad if you're wrong, so they're extra conservative in cases like these.  If he says it's okay, then he must really not see any cause to worry." 


So there it is.  Trouble is a girl who continues to earn her in-utero name, and I have earned a few more white hairs.