Five Hours

by Lucinda Weatherby

  “I just want to go home and get this labor started,” I say. “I can’t stand the waiting, the not knowing.”

  As we leave for the parking lot, Rhione stops me, pulling something from her purse. “Debbie wanted me to give these to you.” She hands me three black-and-white printouts from the ultrasound. One is of the baby’s foot, the other two of the face. I hold them close to my chest the whole way back to the farm.

  I’m relieved to get home and climb into our big, soft haven of a bed. But I’m too worried to relax, so I go downstairs to our office and do some research on the single-artery umbilical cord and the kidney fluid. I scour every book we own on pregnancy, and I go online. I come out of that thinking we have a much greater chance of a baby with Down syndrome, maybe one-in-five odds. But I focus on the information that gives us the best chance of a normal baby, the research that says Down’s is almost always associated with a visible heart problem. I keep reminding myself that the major organ systems in our baby looked fine, and that this puts us in the lowest risk category. I also underline to myself the research that insists the kidney-fluid issue is a separate thing, entirely unrelated to the cord issue. But deep inside I worry that the presence of these two factors together indicates a significantly higher chance of a problem.

  Dicken keeps looking up from his computer, staring at my face with concern. “Stop reading all that stuff. It’ll just upset you more,” he says.

  “At least it’s something to do.”

  I feel very much alone right now. Instead of being reassuring, Dicken seems dismissive, critical of how I’m handling this. At the same time, I’m glad he’s not as worried as I am about the ultrasound. He’s highly intuitive, and I hope his lack of concern is a sign that as usual, he’s right and I’m being overly dramatic.

  January 3

  I’m up a lot that night, going over the ultrasound, the research, the statistics. I keep imagining I’m pulling a coin out of a jar filled with eighty normal pennies and twenty marked ones, or ninety normal and ten marked, or whatever statistic I recall from the reading I’ve done. I can never see what coin I’ve pulled out. I’m always too scared to look.

  People who know what’s happening pour in stories of their own or from someone they know about prenatal scares that ended up being nothing. I can count at least ten of them among my own friends and relatives. I think of all of them with their beautiful, healthy children, recalling weeks or months of worrying about test results, and I can’t wait to join the club. Just a week or two more and I’ll be there, I keep telling myself.

  I’m trying to reassure myself with what I read on the web about ultrasounds and their ability to detect major abnormalities. Many babies with chromosomal abnormalities will have ultrasound markers that may be seen during the mid-pregnancy ultrasound, the website babycenter.ca says, but most will also have structural abnormalities. So if a marker is seen, the sonographer will carry out a careful examination of the baby to look for other problems. This is extremely reassuring, given that so many of our baby’s organs look fine: If the baby looks normal in every other way, it most probably is normal.

  *

  Rhione calls me and says she’s been talking our case over with other midwives. She thinks we should consider seeing a specialist in prenatal genetic screening. “I really believe the chances are very much in your favor, from everything I’ve heard and read. But why not be on the safe side and get a second opinion?”

  I agree with her, and she says she’ll call the one midwife-friendly specialist in the state and see if we can get a last-minute appointment. Maud overhears me on the phone and bursts into tears when I explain Rhione’s take on the situation. I steel myself to stay positive.

  Rhione calls back to say Dr. Vernon Katz in Eugene has very sweetly agreed to see us the next day during his lunch hour. In the meantime, I do some more research on the Internet. Again, the single umbilical artery (SUA) seems to be the factor most likely to indicate a problem. Statistics I read vary, saying that somewhere in the range of 5 to 20 percent of babies with an SUA also have serious complications, including chromosomal abnormalities. The risk for Down’s is higher. But much of what I read tells me that if the heart looks okay, the chances of anything major like that are much lower.

  All that long afternoon, I try to stay calm and take extra care of myself and the baby. I cry a lot. Dicken still refuses to admit out loud that anything could be wrong with the baby, and I’m finding him somewhat remote. Jennifer and Rhione will come with us to Eugene tomorrow. I pray all is well, that we’ll return entirely reassured and ready to settle in for a home birth. I feel incredibly grateful for our baby’s health and well-being, something I promise myself I’ll never take for granted, ever.

  In bed that night, Jasper is so sweet, telling me, “Mom, everything is going to be okay with the baby,” and he sleeps next to me. I reach over every now and then to stroke his face or his arm as he sleeps and marvel at his health, his beauty, his perfection.

  Unable to sleep, negative thoughts play through my mind unceasingly: I told you that you were too old to have a baby. Your eggs are defective. Now you’ve done it, you idiot. What were you thinking? You’re not strong enough; you’re not healthy. How are you going to cope with the baby, especially if it has problems? It’s your fault for not eating well enough, for not wanting to gain weight, for eating too much protein and stressing the baby’s little kidneys. I think of Simon, Dicken’s father, and his kidney failure and how Dicken couldn’t pee as a newborn. It is a night filled with fear.

  January 4

  In the morning, Dicken, Rhione, Jennifer, and I drive the three hours to Eugene. The ultrasonographer spends over an hour looking at the baby and taking measurements, focusing on every major organ, the umbilical insertion, the mouth (looking for a cleft lip or palate, Jennifer later explains). Nothing seems to alarm the technician or the midwives. I gaze at the images and silently talk to the sweet-looking baby: “Please be okay.” It has its mouth pressed up against what the technician thinks is the placenta.

  “They like to nuzzle things,” she explains. I imagine my newborn nuzzling up against me very soon.

  After what seems like a long wait, the geneticist enters. He is a tall, thin man in his fifties who looks a lot like Sydney Pollack. He is carrying a folder and has a grave look on his face. Seeing his expression, I feel the ground beneath me recede.

  But his words aren’t as terrible as I imagine. He tells us the baby is smaller than the size he’d expect but still in normal range, about the twentieth percentile for gestational age. This could indicate growth retardation, but he says the small size might be due to any number of factors, including smaller build (I imagine my dad’s slim frame), my eating patterns in pregnancy (terrible), or a virus (Didn’t I have a touch of stomach bug at the beginning of my third trimester, just when the fundal height started stalling?). He describes the kidney as having what looks like a reflux issue, not related to anything genetic, he guesses, and one that might correct itself on its own. He says the low amniotic level could be explained by the approaching birth, when levels decrease naturally.

  “Just make sure to get the baby a checkup at three months to see if anything is still going on with those kidneys.”

  Relief sweeps through me. If this expert doctor is already jumping ahead to the three-month checkup, what could be seriously wrong?

  He adds that in his opinion, the kidney issue has nothing to do with anything else, such as the low fluid, but that if we go online we’ll probably find contradictory information about it. I feel very reassured by his confidence on that one.

  He then discusses the amniotic fluid level, which is still in normal range but near the low end of the spectrum. He restates that this is not unusual to see as the birth approaches, but that if it drops any farther, intervention might be called for.

  “Drink a lot of fluid and stay resting most of the time,” he advises. “And you’ll want to monitor the fluid levels with another ultrasound in five days,
and keep track of kick counts.”

  “What about the two-vessel cord?” I ask.

  Dr. Katz looks puzzled and says, “I saw a normal cord.” A moment of massive relief almost knocks me over, but then the doctor looks down at his notes and corrects himself. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “The cord is indeed two-vesseled. Which, along with the size being smaller, and your age, puts you at a higher risk for Down’s. But I see single-umbilical arteries half a dozen times a week, and more often than not, they don’t turn out to be a problem.”

  He takes out a pen and draws a bell curve, two large humps overlapping slightly, showing us that we are in the small middle area between Down’s and normal babies, the “gray area,” the unknown.

  “The good news is there are no hard markers for genetic abnormality,” he says. “But no one can guarantee your baby doesn’t have an abnormality.”

  I ask if we can do an amnio, and he says no, the fluid levels are too low.

  He says many reassuring things, including that it’s fine to go ahead with our plans for a home birth. “Even if the baby does have Down’s, there’s no increased risk based on environment.”

  That is thrilling to hear, and I burst into tears. I leave elated about being approved for the home birth, and mostly relieved by what the doctor has said, though slightly anxious at the idea of having a baby with Down’s. But given the overly cautious tendencies of mainstream medicine these days, the fact that we are okayed for the home birth makes me think the situation can’t be dangerous.

  As we walk to our car, Dicken says, “Wow, I never thought of the possibility of having a baby with Down syndrome.”

  “I don’t think we have a Down’s baby,” I say.

  Once we get a signal on our cell phone, I call Mom to tell her the report. When I mention the possibility of a Down’s baby, she immediately says in her cheerful voice, “Oh, they’re such lovely people! We’d be happy to have one in our family.”

  Maud cries with relief when I call to tell her we can have a home birth. “I was so worried,” she says in a confessional tone. “I didn’t want to let you know, but I’ve been doing research on the web and it’s been freaking me out. Oh, this is such fantastic news! I have to go tell the kids. We’ve been waiting to hear from you all afternoon.”

  On the drive home, Rhione talks about her son Jared, who was killed in an accident three years ago. Typical of a road trip, I learn more about her in those few hours than I have in all the years I’ve known her. I never knew that she raised her four boys almost entirely on her own, and that she doesn’t even know where Jared’s father is. I can’t imagine going through such a loss alone, to have the other parent on the planet but not connected to the terrible reality of the situation. We talk about the challenges parenting brings, and she repeats several times, shaking her head with sweet conviction, “The little ones bring the gifts.” I’ve been trying not to think of our baby too much during this conversation, because it just makes me worried, but I feel more confident when Rhione with all her wisdom says, “These babies bring us things we don’t even know we need.”

  *

  At home again, the worry reasserts itself. I search the web for more data—some is scary as hell, some is reassuring. It’s very hard not to know, to trust the unfoldment. I hang onto Paul’s saying he sees the baby as fine. But I keep hearing the doctor mention Down’s.

  I cry a lot. When I think of how precious the baby is, remembering how its little face was pressed up against the placenta like an older child with a blanket or a teddy bear, I feel enormous compassion for its tender fragility. I long to hold and comfort this baby.

  Maud and Grace come to visit me in bed that afternoon.

  “Oh, are these the ultrasound pictures?” Maud asks, seeing the printouts sitting on my bedside table.

  “Yeah, take a peek,” I say.

  “Oh, look, Grace!” Maud gushes.

  Grace peers at the prints and makes a sour face. “It kind of looks like a monster,” she says, and half smiles.

  “Don’t say that, Grace,” Maud admonishes.

  I try to smile, wave it off. But I feel dark. This is not what I need to hear right now.

  January 5

  I spend the next day wandering the house aimlessly or sitting at my computer looking for information on Down syndrome. I feel agitated and can’t sit still for long. Dicken is at his desk, working on some web project. He hardly looks up when I come in and out of the office. Once in a while I tell him something I’ve found.

  “This website says we have a fifty-fifty chance of a problem.”

  “Oh,” he responds.

  “Is that all you can say?”

  “Sorry, but I don’t think any of this is worth worrying about. Everything is just fine. You’ll see.”

  I feel unsupported, wishing he understood my need to look for answers. I also envy his ability to not think about it. I would love to be in that state myself, but it’s impossible. Every waking moment, I am with this baby, a mystery tucked under my ribs, so all-consuming and close I can’t see anything else.

  With so much time and restlessness, and without reassurance from Dicken, I decide I might as well go to Rhione’s dance class. She has women come and dance for each other, sharing what we see in each one’s movements, offering support. Dicken seems pleased to see me go. I’m sure he’s sick of my worried face.

  I hardly feel the cold as I step out of the house. It is dark out already. I drive in silence, still thinking of the baby, wondering, yearning to know.

  *

  Rhione greets me with a long, belly-to-belly embrace.

  “I just love you guys so much,” she says. “How are you doing?”

  “Oh, you know.”

  In the opening circle, Rhione dedicates the class to me and the baby. I begin to cry, and imagine my dance will be vulnerable and weepy. I sit and feel sorry for myself, thinking of Dicken practically pushing me out the door, his face hard, remote.

  Then I begin my dance, and everything shifts: I feel the power of the earth come through me, especially in my feet and legs, filling me with enormous strength and energy. There is so much space within me I can’t feel any boundaries. It seems I’m floating into the stars, yet I can feel that my feet are solidly grounded. I don’t recognize this part of myself. I wonder if the baby is asking me to be strong, to protect it. I feel powerful and capable for the first time in a while, completely willing to do whatever it takes to take care of this baby. I know with certainty I can do it on my own—I don’t need to rely on Dicken, or anyone. I have it in me.

  I open my eyes and see the faces of the other women peering up at me in reverence.

  “I saw you as a warrior,” one of them tells me. “You were awesome.”

  Rhione nods her head slowly. “You’re ready, honey.”

  *

  The next day we watch a football game on TV at Mom’s house. My lifelong favorite team, the Washington Redskins, manage to eke out a win in the wildcard playoff game, which is exciting, something positive and hopeful in this uncertain time. Maud stays by my side almost constantly, monitoring the baby’s heartbeat, checking its position with her hands. Dicken takes me in his arms when I ask, his great big bear hold comforting.

  But still, I feel alone in what seems like an interminable waiting period.

  It occurs to me that the ends of both my pregnancies, along with the final stage of adopting Kevin, have been challenging to the core. They initiate me, call me to levels of presence and strength I’m not aware of in any other situation. Jasper’s three-day birth awoke my power in this way, and my trip last year to get Kevin was incredibly intense; Mom called it my “hero’s journey.” In both cases I felt supported, but I had to do the final battle on my own, without the possibility of rescue.

  This is shaping up to be another of those battles. I have to face it, to endure these long, hard moments without any guarantees. Character-building, I hope! If we do have a baby with physical challenges, we’ll get by. I know tha
t. Meanwhile, I’m being called to stay in the moment and not listen to the scary stories my mind is conjuring. I’m being called to trust.

  CHAPTER 13

  January 7

  Two weeks and one day to due date

  Mom comes to spend the day with me. I love our quiet time together; we’ve had more of it these past weeks than I can ever remember. She plays me a CD of my sister Cecily and her husband Michal’s new recording, “Mere Gurudev,” a song they arranged for cello, voice, and piano and performed live for the yoga guru B.K.S. Iyengar at a celebration in Boston last month. The lyrics are about devotion, the music hauntingly beautiful. As we listen, I pick up my journal and out fall the three printouts from the ultrasound. As I gaze at the black-and-white images, I feel such a searing tenderness for the baby, and the music is so moving, I burst into tears and weep quietly while Mom rubs my back.

  I mostly stay in bed and drink as much water as I can to keep the fluid levels up. In two days I’ll go in for a follow-up ultrasound to check my levels—fingers crossed that they haven’t dropped. If they have, we may not be able to do a home birth. I’m still confused about the meconium scare, praying it was just a fluke and not a warning sign.

  I love this baby so much, I write in my journal, more than I imagined possible, such a gift, and the details fall away from the enormity of the love that moves my heart—who cares if it has Down’s or a cleft palate or kidney issues. We’ll take the best care of it we possibly can, and what a huge privilege it is to be this one’s mother. I’ll savor every diaper change, every feeding, every single time I can touch its skin, kiss its cheeks, hold it close.

  At around nine that evening, I have a bit of a bloody show, a sign that things are moving along toward labor. There is no other activity yet, besides Dix cleaning out closets and preparing birth supplies. I go to bed, hoping to sleep a lot. We may be looking at a day or two or possibly several before labor starts, but probably no more than a week. I’m excited; I’m nervous. I don’t feel quite ready somehow, but maybe this really will happen soon.