The world couldn’t be so cruel

It has been some time since my last post, three months or so in fact. About the time that it takes to fall pregnant and endure the first trimester of fatigue, morning sickness, hope and anxiety. And that’s no coincidence, because we’re pregnant.

It was only about a week after we were told by our obstetrician to “go forth and multiply” (his words not mine) that we conceived. Apart from the obvious, I barely know how it happened. I was still finding it difficult to decipher between withdrawal bleeding, a period and losing the last of the “products of conception” from our previous miscarriage to have any inkling about when I might be able to conceive again. But it happened. I was shocked, surprised, happy and nervous, but mainly glad that we didn’t have to endure months of anticipation. I wanted our son to have a little brother or sister before he was three.

I spent weeks going to bed early with tiredness and feeling nauseated morning, noon and night. My boobs hurt like crazy. My husband took our son to the pool, the beach, or the park almost every afternoon he could so that I could lie in bed, watching beautiful Autumn afternoons come and go through the window, but hopeful that it would soon all be worthwhile. The few friends I told I was pregnant crossed their toes and fingers for me. They asked if I was worried, “of course” I said, “but the world couldn’t be so cruel as to make this pregnancy third time unlucky.” They agreed. The world couldn’t be so cruel.

Our eight week scan went well. I was so nervous before hand that I paced around the sonographer’s office, checking over my shoulder every thirty seconds to check whether our appointment was ready. The sonographer confirmed a heartbeat probably within record time. It would have been obvious to anyone that I was a somewhat psychotic and deranged pregnant lady about to have a full blown meltdown. I proved her right somewhat by bawling uncontrollably at the sight of the heartbeat. Everything was going to be ok.

I then had a follow up appointment at BEP’s (my obstetrician) at around eleven weeks. I felt more confident than previously. I still felt sick, unlike my last pregnancy where my morning sickness had ended abruptly at around eight weeks. BEP said, “well let’s try and put your mind at ease”, and asked me to lie down so that he could perform an ultrasound. Before I could even ask whether he could see a heartbeat the baby moved! It was an incredible and unexpected moment. BEP even thought the baby measured at around twelve weeks. That magical twelve weeks.

BEP suggested that I undertake the standard twelve week nuchal translucency scan soon together with the blood test to test for issues including Down Syndrome. So I booked in at the sonographer’s that Thursday. I was slightly nervous, but nothing like the eight week scan. I’d seen the baby alive that Monday, and that had put me at ease.

The scan started well enough. The baby’s heartbeat could be seen, and the nasal bone, which apparently was a good sign. Then disaster. The sonographer began measuring the nuchal fluid. She loitered. I asked her if it was normal and she said no. The fluid measured at 3.8mm. Anything greater than 3.5mm was immediately referred to the Fetal Unit at the hospital. We asked what it meant. The sonographer said it meant it was likely that our baby had Down Syndrome. My husband asked, “what does that mean, does it mean more likely than not?” She seemed to agree. He asked again, “so is the risk, say, one in two?” She said, “it could be” and offered to enter the details into her computer to calculate our risk. One in thirteen. Lucky thirteen. Better than one in two, but one in thirteen! I’d only just turned 33 a few weeks earlier surely my risk wasn’t that high?

It was a day that, despite everything we’d been through, I hadn’t expected and it hit me hard. I cried. The midwife student shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The sonographer looked awkward and busied herself with preparing our report. “Why does this shit always happen to me?” I asked, “I don’t deserve this!” My beautiful son saw I was upset and gave me cuddles. My husband clutched my hand tightly.

We were moved into the staff room.  I cried there. Eventually we moved out to reception. I cried there too. I didn’t care that I was crying. They said I didn’t have to pay the $180 fee. I knew that must mean things were bad. And they were.

 

 

 

 

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