“Everything will be okay,” Chris
assured me repeatedly the following morning as we prepared for our appointment
with Dr. Landry.
“Do you really believe that, or are
you just trying to make me feel better?”
“I really believe that.” He sounded
confident.
I shook my head and stared vacantly
as the floor as he left the room. Why
can’t I be so positive?
After dropping Parker off at his Pre-K class, we headed south on I-15 for the 35-minute drive, both sitting silent,
staring at the asphalt disappearing and rising in front of us. My hand clutched a
blank videotape cassette to record the ultrasound picture. This might be the last time I see my baby, and I want it all on tape,
to be able to watch again…
Dr. Landry’s nurse was waiting. After
quickly preparing me for the ultrasound, she quietly exited the room. Chris sat
in a corner chair, shuffling his feet. I stared at the ceiling. As much as I
ached to know the results—even bad ones—I was in no hurry for Dr. Landry to
make his entrance.
Minutes later, the door cracked open,
his smiling face appeared, and he offered a hesitant “hello.” He didn’t seem
delighted about looking at the screen, either. Nervous tenseness dangled in the
air as he finally switched the unit on, laid the ultrasound head on my swollen
abdomen, and the three of us inhaled deeply in orchestra-like unison. Then, in
synchrony, all eyes slowly angled toward the monitor.
The monitor snapped to life, and my
baby’s form engulfed the screen.
A tiny gasp escaped my lips. There
it was again: that beating heart.
Only it had grown and was now surrounded by other, clearly visible organs. The
fetus had developed into a perfect-looking baby—in miniature scale.
The three of us stared at the
monitor, waiting in edgy anticipation for the baby to flail its arms and legs—a
positive sign negating the presence of any neural tube defects or paralysis. I
held my breath. Suddenly, the baby kicked and rolled to one side, exposing another
viewing angle. My eyes widened as the baby wiggled against its cramped
quarters.
Then, with all six eyes fixed on his
pointing index finger, Dr. Landry identified the placenta—far removed from the cervix. Well developed. In good condition!
The room’s atmosphere reversed from worry
to elation and breathless excitement. Oh,
God! We we’re safe; out of the high-risk woods! Now I didn’t have to worry
about hemorrhaging to death, moving to Escondido to be close to the hospital in
case of an emergency, or having to stay parked in bed to alleviate pressure on
the placenta or cervix. That horrifying voice had been wrong. I’m not going to die and leave Parker
motherless! I was not going to bleed to death! Tears surged as the
realization sank deeper into my head.
Our collective faces erupted into
silly grins, and we all heaved gargantuan relief sighs. I wanted to leap from
the table and waltz around the room with Chris. Even Dr. Landry appeared to be
having difficulty maintaining his doctorly composure as his brow furrow vanished,
and he kept the picture on and the video tape rolling. He claimed it was to
obtain measurements and weight and ascertain development stats, but I think he
was actually enjoying the view too and to capture the magnificent movements on
film. Forever.
The image was exquisite, and an
indescribable, beyond-relief feeling, electrified my nerves. Thank you for your great mercy, God!
reverberated through my brain.
The three of us were ecstatic. No
more sickness. No more threats. No more worries. I was out of the high-risk
woods. I was normal! I was free to enjoy this pregnancy!
Then a thought tweaked the perimeter
of my joy: the results of the blood test to determine chromosomal abnormality
risks. A pesky little cloud moved in and cast a tiny shadow over my enthusiasm.
There was one more hurdle to clear—or confront.
For that day, however, I felt
wonderful, blessed, happy. Hopeful! We were going to have another baby, without
a major problem.
“See,
I told you everything would be all right!” Chris announced jubilantly and
self-confidently as we exited the office. I smiled and wished I didn’t have to
go home to celebrate in silence while he went to work to get congratulatory back
slaps from his work buddies.
But home I went, to ponder God’s
grace and healing, and to finally venture into that empty, upstairs bedroom I’d
carefully avoided for more than a year. In just a few months, it would be
filled with nursery décor and sounds of a healthy, gurgling infant.
That pleasurable thought was almost
intoxicating.
_______________________________________________
NEXT WEEK: The blood tests. Not what I hoped for…
_______________________________________________
Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Andrea
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