“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.”