17w1d. 17w5d. 16w6d. These were all numbers and letters appearing briefly on the screen as the ultrasound tech punched her keyboard keys and rotated the ultrasound probe on my belly. Click, click, click. Images, measurements, numbers and letters being saved in rapid succession, almost as if the tech didn’t want me studying them for too long as she gathered them. Being the hypervigilant researcher that I am, I already knew what the numbers and letters appearing on the screen meant. 17w1d meant whatever body part she was measuring was the size of a 17 week 1 day old baby’s. Our baby, however, was 19 weeks gestation. Knowing this, and knowing what the measurements on the screen meant, I hesitantly asked the ultrasound tech if it was okay that the baby was measuring small. She said she didn’t know, and that she would get the doctor when she was done. I went into panic mode, and even as I’m typing this, I feel as if my throat is closing and my heart is pounding. This moment was the moment everything changed. My pregnancy was no longer normal. My anxiety was no longer unfounded.
I thought of the gender reveal we had planned that weekend. Today was supposed to be the day that the ultrasound tech would write the gender on a piece of paper and seal it in an envelope. John and I would hand over the envelope to someone we trusted, and they would be the only ones to know the gender before the reveal. The plan was to have a small party at a local winery. We would have cute snacks, blue and pink cups and plates, and games guessing what the gender was. Then, John and I would take a black wine bottle filled with either blue or pink water, and pour it into a wine glass, revealing the gender of our sweet baby. My parents were even flying in for the weekend so they could attend.
Now, sitting in the small dark ultrasound room, listening to tense keyboard clicks and awkward silence, it felt impossible to think of the party we had planned. Gender was the last thing on my mind. I had come into this exam selfishly thinking of myself - how could I get them to prescribe me anxiety medication? How could I get this anxiety to subside so I could continue with the pregnancy experience everyone else got to partake in? As soon as I knew something was wrong with the baby, all thoughts of my issues dissolved. By the time the doctor came in to talk to us, I didn’t even remember I had anxiety issues. I just wanted to hear that this was normal - everything with the baby would be okay. That wasn’t what we heard.
When the high-risk doctor came in, it was clear that he was concerned and that he didn’t have great bedside manner. He reviewed the ultrasound images and performed an ultrasound himself. Then, in an accusatory tone, he asked me a series of questions: “Do you eat a lot of salt? When was the last time you ate? Have you been under any stress?” My answers to each of these questions elicited a hostile response, and I was becoming more and more unraveled. When asked about the stress, John mentioned that I’ve been having terrible anxiety, and the doctor abruptly asked me why I hadn’t been taking medication for it. I timidly responded that my OB had wanted me to avoid medication. He said “Well, I’m an OB, and I’m telling you you need to take medication.” With that, I managed to get the prescription I was looking for, but not at all in the way I had wanted it.
When my interrogation was through, the doctor told us a few of the reasons why the baby was measuring small. It could be that the baby is just small, and we’ll just have to monitor him or her. It could be that the placenta is insufficient, and the baby isn’t receiving adequate nutrition. It could also be that there are some genetic abnormalities, and “if we want to terminate, we need to decide soon.” As soon as termination was mentioned, I lost it. The doctor kept going on about all the tests we needed to get done - various screening tests, a fetal echocardiogram, and possibly an amniocentesis. I was now considered high risk, and I needed to be monitored closely.
It was also noticed during the ultrasound that the umbilical cord was only two-vessel. Normal umbilical cords have three vessels, so our baby was already battling the odds by receiving less blood flow. By the time John and I were escorted to a normal exam room for blood draws and more conversations about the possibilities, I was already picturing the worst. The uncertainty in the doctor’s voices and the possibilities of everything that could be wrong were looming over me, suffocating me. Tears streamed down my face, and the doctor that had just been berating me softened his tone a bit and tried to console me - “Maybe the baby will just be small like you.” We we’re told that I’d need to come back in two weeks for another growth ultrasound. If the baby made two weeks worth of growth, there really wouldn’t be much to worry about because he or she would be following his or her own curve. If the baby’s growth continued to slow, it would be much more concerning.
By the time the doctor’s visit was over, we had been there for almost three hours. I was emotionally and physically drained. With ultrasound pictures and an envelope hiding the gender in hand, I felt removed from my body and removed from the pregnancy. I couldn’t even look at the ultrasound pictures for fear of becoming even more attached to a baby that may never see the light of day. Genetic abnormality. Echocardiogram. Two weeks behind. Termination. All the information that had just been hurled at me swirled around my brain like a tornado. The ride home was torture as I called my parents and explained what the doctor said between sobs.
