“Your mind is your home. Treat every thought as a guest or a pest”

I’m now 12+3 weeks. For those of you screaming at your screen, “that’s 3 months!”, I understand your frustration. I once scratched my head in confusion when women measured their gestational period in weeks and days. Stop being so fancy and just say your 3 months… or 6 months… or 9 months… and stop confusing me with your week! However, since this whole pregnancy ‘journey’, I’ve come to appreciate the changes and importance of every single week and day. At 9 weeks my embryo graduated to ‘foetus’ status. It didn’t get to wear a graduation gown and we didn’t buy it a car, however, it’s a milestone denied to many. This week alone, my foetus is responding to external sensations and may even ‘flinch’ when my tummy grumbles. It’s thyroid gland, pancreas and gallbladder actually begin working, and if you’re carrying a little girl, she will already have over 2 million eggs in her ovaries… so essentially you may be carrying both your daughter and the blueprint of your grandchild all at the same time. Did I say that this all happens this week? Week 12! This week its little hairs will start to grow and it will start making facial gestures; a smile, a frown, a squint. Every single week marks a new set of achievements. Every week marks a new day of living, growing, surviving. So when you see that women rubbing her apparent non-existent belly, know that each week is significant and some serious magic is happening in there!

With all this in mind, its that scary nuchal translucency scan time. I’m back at the hospital and that sickly feeling has returned. I wish I could leave my body until they tell me everything is ok. Husband has been allowed to come with me this time, but I’ve forced him to stay in the waiting room. I need to ensure everything is fine first. I have a new doctor, however, I’ve ended up with the exact same nurse as last time. She senses my nerves and reminds me to breathe. She speaks words of life over me, “This won’t be the same as last time.” The doc reads through my files and begins scanning. I don’t want to be here. Body, fly away to a happier place. Don’t look at the screen… just don’t do it to yourself. Unexpectedly, I hear a giggle emerge from the seemingly reserved doctor. There it is; my foetus in black and white, on the screen hanging from the roof, in all its baby-like glory. I see a head, body, legs, arms and that heart ponding like a trooper. My little foetus is quite the kicker and continues to wiggle and squirm while the doc comically takes chase to get the still frames he needs. I feel relief for a moment, before my head delves into the worse case scenarios once again. “It is suppose to move that much?” “What if it’s having a fit?” Yes, my mind goes to strange places sometimes, but I trust the doc knows what he’s going.  Once he has the ‘stills’ he needs, I ask husband to be brought into the dark room to meet his little foetus on screen for the first time. It’s a weird moment of silence, disbelief and apparent hesitation. We both know its still too early for us to celebrate, and we avoid any extended eye contact in fear that if one cries, this mighty front will crumble.

The doctor books all my subsequent scans, with the most important one in 3 weeks time: the early anomaly ultrasound. The nurse then types into a machine, which spits out our ‘statistics’. Our results have emerged as being good, something like 1:20,000 and I scoff . Yes, you heard me… scoffed. I never imagined such rudeness could ever invade my manner and sprout through my lips.  To me, this statistic meant nothing. I resent it. The last statistic I was given was 1:400,000 births! That meant that nearly half a million healthy babies would need to be born before we went through what we had experienced.  But what about this lowly ‘1:’ in this magical statistic? The ‘1:’ who actually has the sick child?  The ‘1:’ who has the condition. The ‘1:’ that dies…

Luckily for me, she was a lady of grace. We were once that ‘1′ and she agrees; there is no guarantee. But isn’t that life? It’s amazing that in uttering my grievance I realised how right I was, but at the same time, how foolish it sounds. I’m so busy looking for my guarantees, looking for  the signs and the wonders.  For something or someone to tell me that it will be ok. To be assured. To be promised. Its easier said than done, but in my foolish chatter, I’ve come to remember that we’re not promised tomorrow. Even though the seemly insignificant ‘1:’ is an unfortunate reality, the 20,000 or the 400,000 who are born with their health is so too a reality. For now, I cannot turn my fear off, but I can be grateful for that doctor, for that nurse, for the technology all used for my benefit, and ultimately, for that heartbeat. And hope we’ll be lucky enough this time to not be the 1.

“You may not understand today or tomorrow, but eventually God will reveal why you went through everything you did.”

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scares.” – Khalil Gibran

It’s New Years Eve. It’s party central at Liverpool Hospital (or shall I call it, ghost town?) Waiting rooms that are usually buzzing with impatient patients are silent. Many of the hallways are bare. I’m taken back by the apparent desertion of the pathology arena. Lucky me… no queue! We should be right in and right out. Wait, there’s no one at the counter. The lights are off. A small sign is stuck to the glassed counter: CLOSED. Closed? Closed?! You would think that all these clues together would have convinced me. But it can’t be. The receptionist said it would be open. I feel panicked. Should I bang on the window and yell? Will someone come? Breathe. As it turns out, pathology was in fact closed to outpatients for a whole 7 days! With this news, I walk upstairs to the Feto-Maternal Unit hoping that this is just a terrible mistake and I’ve been sent to the wrong place. The doors are sealed shut. Maybe it’s closed for lunch? I’ll just wait. Is this what we call denial? I pace up and down the hall. There’s got to be an explanation. Doesn’t this facility understand what’s at stake here. 

After an hour, I’m defeated. No ones coming. It was emphasised how important this blood test was and in 3 days I’ll return for my appointment with nothing. It’s a sign. Nothing is going to go right. This is just setting me up for what’s to come, but I can’t leave. I just stand there. Like an idiot. A standing, anxious, idiot…

A nurse walks past from the back entrance of the maternity unit. She can evidently see the defeat in my eyes and the fear on my face. She asks if she could be of help. In my quivering, uneven voice I explain the situation. Don’t cry, don’t cry. She invites us into the maternity ward to a congregation of  welcoming and reassuring nurses who take my paper work and try to work out what to do. You could still sense the excitement from Christmas, with tinsel draped over the counters, joyful chatter and the echoes of the newly born voicing throughout the ward. I flick through the newborn brochures on the wall trying to hide my angst. I fear if I don’t stop flicking and pretending to read I’ll burst out crying. My lips haven’t stopped quivering. My eyes better not follow. Husband has that look. It’s his first time back here. After many attempts on the phone, it’s suggested that we may need to go through emergency, but they warn it will take hours! Another suggested that we may need to go to another hospital, but wasn’t too sure, so we continue to wait, out of place, for a solution.

Eventually a gentle looking young doctor came sweeping through with stickers and vials with my name on them. He escorted us to the maternity assessment room explaining that there was no one here to do it, but that he will as “we’ve got to look after our own”. I profusely thank him. I imagine that he must had just finished up delivering a baby, and now he’s here helping poor little insignificant me. He joked about the obvious confusion and consoled us with his gracious professionalism. He filled the time with distracting small talk about his work, holidays and his apparent phobia and reaction to needles. He made us feel like we weren’t a burden, that we weren’t wasting his time, that we weren’t an inconvenience. You can truly find kindness in the most unexpected places. Who would have though that an understaffed, underfunded, overworked, slandered placed like Liverpool Public Hospital in south-west Sydney was where I’d discover my first sense of mercy for a long time.

We were at the hospital for 4 hours for a 4-minute blood test. I’m exhausted. I’m emotional. I’m ready to farewell the worst year of my life.

3 … 2 … 1 … Happy New Year and welcome 2013! I really do hope you hold greater things for us.

“Every experience, no matter how bad it seems, holds within it a blessing of some kind. The goal is to find it.” -Buddha

“Never miss a good chance to shut up.” -Will Rogers

The Genetic Counsellors, who I only saw 6 months earlier, are sitting across from me. I’m at my first Genetic Counselling appointment, with the same doctors who gave me the detailed autopsy findings last time. What a horrendous meeting that was. This time, they gaze at me with eyes of delight. “Congratulations! Are you feeling excited?” Ah… no. They assure me that my response was to be expected. Ok, I’m normal. The professionals say so. “So… where is your husband?” Ah, not invited. I now feel a little less ‘normal’ but I plea my case for his absence. At the conclusion of my defence, they are convinced. Why didn’t I study law? I could be rich, I say! Rich! They give me the low down on how I will be looked after, the gist of their ‘role’ and that I was not to worry myself too much, as ‘statistically’ this pregnancy should have no issues. I can tell you where you can put your statics! Now, now… be nice.

I quiz them regarding my evidently popped belly. It’s huge! Someone has already asked me if I was pregnant, which I persuasively denied. While another someone cornered me until I confessed (never, ever ask… It’s the rules!) In light of this, I’ve resorted to wearing hessian sacks and moo-moos (well, just loose fitting tops really) as a disguise. The docs explain this phenomenon called ‘uterine muscle memory’. You get bigger quicker because your body already knows that it needs to ‘make room’ or something like that. Hmm… Interesting. It’s just not good for my efforts in keeping this all hush-hush though and I know there are already lots of suspicious people – the polite kind – the ones that keep their mouths shut.

After this meeting, I’m sent upstairs to book my first appointment with the Feto-Maternal Unit for my nuchal translucency scan (a.k.a. Facebook ultrasound). I’m greeted with a huge smile from the receptionist, “Oh, I remember you! Nice to see you back”. I’m told to have a blood test at the hospital three days prior to my appointment. She assures me that pathology will still be open at the hospital, despite the fact that my blood will need to be taken on New Years Eve.

Ok, all I need to do now is get through Christmas! No wine, no hot tub, no salads, cold meats or seafood. No vomiting on the dining table. No sitting with belly poking out. No bringing attention to my 5kg weight gain (did I tell you I can eat… no, I mean EAT-hungry-all-the-time-there’s-a-famine-coming-EAT, despite my nausea and vomiting… gross, hey!)

It’s Christmas Day. A friend announces her pregnancy on Facebook with a cute poem. We’re due 1 day apart. I’m imagining her celebrating this wonderful news with her family on this momentous day. How she must have been busting to shout the news from the roof tops. Christmas must seem extra special and I’m genuinely delighted in the baby news. I look at my family in all their wonderful Christmas craziness chaos. How I love them. How I’d like to share this with them…but I just can’t do it. To me, this news is not yet joyful or special. I want to write my news on a note and toss it down a well. A deep one… where no one will find it (Wow, that’s a bit ‘dark’, don’t you think?… snap out of it crazy lady!) But Christmas day is not for wells or the thoughts of the fragility of life. It’s not about dwelling on what was or what may be. So with my moo-moo and bread roll, here’s to my favourite season of celebration, without any thoughts of babies… well, besides the Jesus kind, that is. Merry Christmas.

“Some women are lost in the fire. Some women are built from it.”