Having your first baby is an anxious time. For me, medical science made it much worse.
By Monica Nye
It was a routine ultrasound at 16 weeks to check on my baby’s progress. I had been to this room, across the road from Sydney’s Royal North Shore Hospital, several times before with my husband Chris. We’d been so excited then – teary even – seeing our first baby’s wriggling black-and-white image on the ultrasound screen and listening to the fast, strong heartbeat.
“It won’t take a moment,” the midwife says, offering me an elbow so I can clamber onto the examination table. Chris isn’t with me this time. “Just lift your shirt and I’ll apply the gel.”
I wait for the ultrasound technician or midwife to say something like, “Look, there’s a foot,” or, “The baby’s thumb-sucking today.” On previous visits they’d joyfully volunteered updates on the baby’s activities. This time they are concentrating on the screen. They glance at each other with raised eyebrows.
“What is it?” I ask in a voice that sounds nothing like my own.
I haven’t expected anything to go wrong with my pregnancy. Chris and I had never questioned our
fertility, or anything else for that matter. I’m one of four daughters born fairly close to one another; my husband is one of two siblings, also close in age. We’ve both worked our way up to good jobs, and bought our own house that we’ve almost finished renovating. When we decided to start a family, that too went to schedule. In our perfect world, we picture a daughter followed by a son. Two girls will be OK, too.
Now I’m at a hospital that’s our first choice, because it’s close to home and because it’s a large training hospital with all the facilities you’d ever need. Not that I’m planning on using them: I’ve opted to have my baby born under the midwifery programme. It seems more personal and less clinical than the regular obstetrics programme.
“What is it?” I ask, the panic rising.
The midwife then excuses herself and fetches the doctor from an adjoining consulting room. I stay silent, too afraid to ask another question, as he looks at the images.
After what seems an eternity, he finally addresses me: “Hop down now.”
He covers my stomach and helps me off the examination table. Then I hear him say in a voice that somehow seems too kind, “There are a few anomalies.”
I listen. I feel numb. He explains the ultrasound is picking up a fold in the back of my baby’s neck. It is a possible indicator of Down syndrome.
“We should book you in for amniocentesis. Then we can find out exactly what we’re dealing with.” He explains results from the amniocentesis, booked for the following week, will take three-and-a-half weeks to come back.
I’m listening to him, but simply processing information like a robot. My mind leaps ahead four weeks. By then, I’ll be more than 20 weeks pregnant. If termination is an option, it will still mean giving birth because of the size of the foetus.
That night at home, Chris and I are philosophical. I’d been raised a Catholic but had never really followed the faith. Now, with the real possibility of an imperfect baby inside me, I know termination is not a personal option.
Chris agrees we should have our baby no matter what and we will love it with all our hearts. I am so thankful that we are of one mind and that a difficult decision won’t be made any harder.
A blood test later that week delivers more bad news.
“There are several indicators that your baby may have problems,” an obstetrician explains. I’ve been transferred from the midwife programme: my impending birth is no longer deemed “normal”. The results of the blood tests, coupled with the fact I am a few months short of 34 years old, make the Down syndrome possibility even greater.
We tell our parents the news.
“There’s nothing wrong with your baby,” my mother insists. “Look at all your sisters – they’ve never had any problems with their children so I’m sure yours will be fine, too.” Mum has conveniently overlooked the life-saving operation one of my sister’s daughters needed, chronic asthma in another and a series of hip problems in a third. But Mum’s optimism gives me hope, especially when she promises to start praying.
Her devout Catholicism has seemed to work miracles in the past. Maybe this time it will work again. Although I’m not religious in the way my mother is, I believe in her belief. And I’m comforted by knowing that someone is praying on our behalf.
My in-laws aren’t quite as hopeful. They have been eagerly awaiting the birth of their first grandchild. My mother-in-law says she isn’t sure what to tell her friends and the relatives back in the UK. This hurts Chris and me but we understand it. They had been as excited as we were, and now their bubble has been burst as well.
The hospital arranges genetic counselling. The counsellor tells us about different termination methods, adoption issues and even foster care. Not once are we made to feel right about our choice to continue with the pregnancy and keep the baby. In fact, we decide not to discuss our decision with the staff. We don’t want them to try to influence or judge us. We’ve already decided that between the two of us we’ll go through with the amniocentesis so we can be forewarned about what to expect when the baby is born. We also want to know the sex.
I read everything I can about amniocentesis. On the morning of the procedure I’m fully prepared for what will happen: how a long needle will be inserted into my belly to draw off a sample of the yellow amniotic fluid that surrounds my baby. The fluid contains foetal cells and analysis of their DNA will show whether or not the baby has an extra chromosome attached to every cell – a definitive marker for Down syndrome. I also know the procedure carries a risk of miscarriage.
It is uncomfortable, bordering on painful. I hold my breath, too scared to breathe or move, as the specialist manoeuvres the needle. About ten minutes later, the procedure is finished.
For the next few weeks, Chris and I try to be normal. We continue working during the day and preparing our baby’s nursery at night. I’ve already decided on every little detail: the ceiling is a sensible glossy white; the floorboards are polished. The furnishing fabric will be pink fairies for a girl or blue sailors for a boy. Knowing the baby’s sex ahead of the birth will give us something solid to hold on to now the future seems so uncertain. We’ll also be able to name our baby and start buying clothes. We keep busy with meaningful activity, trying in vain to stop ourselves from worrying.
Eventually the day of the results arrives.
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