So there I was, still trying to
think like a pragmatist while simultaneously praying that maybe—just maybe—everyone was wrong and I was still
pregnant. I was edgy as a surprised cat, vacillating between hope and that something-horrible-has-happened-and-there’s-not-a-darn-thing-I-can-do-about-it
feeling.
I had no choice but to hurry up and
wait.
Dr. Landry’s call came early the
following morning, minutes after his office opened.
“Has the pathology report comeback?”
Dr. Landry’s inquiry was garnished with edginess.
“No.”
“Are you having any abdominal pain
or bleeding?” he questioned with greater intensity.
“No,”
I repeated.
“You were right,” he stated flatly,
with an edge of apology. “Your hormone levels are increasing, not decreasing. I
don’t think you have an ectopic pregnancy because you don’t have any of the
symptoms. But I want you in my office as
soon as you can get in here. I need to see you right away!”
“Do I need to make an appointment?”
“No, just tell the girls up front
that I wanted you to come in, and they should let me know when you arrive.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
My shaking hands cradled the
receiver. My heart raced. Then I grabbed the receiver again and called Chris at
home. “Dr. Landry wants me in his office right away. Could you meet me at his
office, to take Parker in case I do have an ectopic pregnancy and end up in
surgery?”
“Yes, I’ll meet you there. I’ll
leave here right away.” Chris’s voice raised a nervous octave as he responded.
I clutched the phone and sucked in
my breath. “If it is an ectopic pregnancy, this is it. I won’t try again.”
Chris’s shaky voice vibrated through
the airwaves. “I agree. I’ll see you there.”
Within thirty minutes, we converged
upon Dr. Landry’s waiting room, breathless and jittery.
His nurse promptly ushered us into
one of the examination rooms, and Dr. Landry appeared within minutes, looking
serious and concerned. He wasted no time in prepping me for the ultrasound.
While he prepped, he broke the nervous atmosphere by reiterating his belief
that I didn’t have an ectopic pregnancy because I didn’t have the typical
symptoms: bleeding, cramping, severe abdominal pain.
Suddenly the ultrasound machine
snapped to life as he flicked the switch and guided the ultrasound head over the
area of my uterus. Chris squeezed my hand. Parker hopped on a chair in the
corner of the room and made car vroom noises with a Lego.
“There is only one of two things
that I think it might be, since I do not have the pathology report to look at,”
he began, “…and that is exactly what I thought
we would find!” With an elated sigh and smile, he pointed to a tiny object projected
onto the monitor. Four pairs of eyes peered at the picture.
“An embryo within an intact amniotic
sac!” Dr. Landry announced like a triumphant creator of something rare and
priceless.
And there it was: a small embryo—not
quite an inch long—suspended miraculously within a tiny, balloon-shaped
receptacle. Yet all eyes were drawn to a minuscule, pulsing organ, fiercely
pumping out an earnest, life-affirming rhythm.
My
baby’s beating heart.
I sucked in air. I ached to reach
out and touch the form projected onto the gray and white screen. I longed to
provide reassurance that everything would be okay; that both of us would
navigate the next eight months without problems.
That precious, beating heart
mesmerized all of us, and I found it impossible to avert my tear-laced eyes. My
heart feared that when Dr. Landry switched off the monitor, I would have had my
last glimpse of my unborn child. I wanted that vision etched on my memory. If
we could just leave the monitor on, where I could watch over my baby, it might
increase our “luck” of completing the pregnancy without a mishap.
With excitement, we all pointed,
gazed, and exclaimed at the tiny living miracle within my body. Even Dr.
Langford acted like it was the first baby he’d ever seen; even he seemed unwilling
to turn off the machine.
But it all had to end, and as he
reluctantly removed the ultrasound head from my abdomen, the screen went blank.
Lifeless, cold, gray haze inserted itself in place of the living picture.
When will I be treated to that
picture again? I wondered. Would I ever
be treated to it again? Were we really on our way to fulfilling our hopes and
dreams? Eight months seemed an eternity, and so much could happen in that time.
With my history, which seemed to be repeating itself, I could almost count on
experiencing the same debilitating nausea I’d endured with Victoria.
Would a rapid plunge into the valley
follow this mountaintop experience?
Suddenly, a rush of fear,
exhilaration and doubt poured into my neural pathways. I lay on the examining
table—breathless, excited. Numb. My mind raced forward as I thought about that
critical ultrasound that needed to be performed at sixteen weeks to determine
the placenta location—to make sure I didn’t have another placenta previa—and
the blood tests to identify the neural tube defect or genetic abnormality
risks.
Just exactly how would I bear the strain
of waiting?
This was going to take mental
discipline. I had to stop worrying about what if’s and the future. I needed to
do everything in my power to facilitate this pregnancy into going the distance,
in receiving the reward of a full-term, healthy baby.
We had no choice but to wait. That’s
what pregnancy is, I reminded myself: one long nine-month waiting game.
Chris snapped my pendulous
mind-wanderings with his delighted and celebratory mood. And in typical Chris
Owan style, he suggested having lunch at his favorite Italian restaurant before
returning to work. Momentarily forgetting my nausea and distinct lack of
appetite, I wholeheartedly agreed with his plan, as did Parker.
Waving exhilarated good-byes to a
grinning Dr. Landry, Chris, Parker and I left the office to bask in the joy of
the present and hope of the future. Even Parker seemed giddy, although I doubt
he knew why. He just fed off the adrenaline floating around his happy parents.
Though the edible portion of lunch
made my stomach lurch, I refused to let anything steal my joy. The thrill of
verbally reliving the moment—our baby’s picture emitted onto the ultrasound
screen, and the realization that I really
was pregnant—kept us suspended on clouds of unbridled bliss. We prattled on
excitedly, and Parker giggled his way through lunch.
Oh, how I ached for that feeling to
continue—unabated—forever, to follow me delightfully through an unremarkable
pregnancy (the medical term for
nothing-happening-significant-enough-to-write-in-the-chart-about) and on into
an easy, glorious delivery where my arms would be filled with a perfect infant.
Reluctantly, Chris returned to work
for the remainder of the afternoon while Parker and I drove home, happily
discussing babies, siblings, nurseries and due dates.
Oh, yes. About that due date Dr. Landry
gave us of April 13, 1995.
We were expecting our new baby’s
arrival on the exact anniversary of Victoria’s death.
_______________________________________
NEXT WEEK: Nausea, bleeding, the 16-week ultrasound…and
a chilling encounter with evil…
______________________________________
Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Blessings,
Andrea
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