two weeks later.
Two weeks after our 19 week anatomy scan, I had to return to the doctor’s office for another growth ultrasound. For the past ten days (the days since my insomnia attack), I had been feeling pretty optimistic. When I wasn’t feeling optimistic, I would repeat the things my therapist told me to say: “The baby is going to grow. There is nothing wrong with my placenta. I am doing everything I can.”
I spent my days leading up to the ultrasound cramming as much protein and calories as I could into my diet. I would eat at least 100 grams of protein and drink around 100 ounces of water a day. I would rest as much as possible, try to sleep, and try to stay positive. As long as the doctors saw two weeks worth of growth, everything would be okay - the baby would just be small.
Before I knew it, it was the day of the ultrasound. My mom surprised me by coming in for the appointment since she knew how nervous I was. Sitting in the waiting room listening for my name to be called was agony. After what seemed like years, I was lying down in a familiar position, trying to get comfortable on crinkly paper. As the ultrasound tech moved her wand over my belly, I stared at the computer screen as if my life would end if I blinked.
At first, I felt relief as the tech played the baby’s heartbeat for us to hear and noted that the baby was active. Then, as quickly as the relief came, the despair washed over me. I saw the measurements appear on the screen as the tech painstakingly measured each of my baby’s body parts. 18w1d. 18w5d. 17w6d. 19w2d. Remembering the measurements from two weeks ago, I knew that the baby hadn’t made two weeks worth of growth. At the last ultrasound, the baby was measuring two weeks behind. Now, the baby was measuring three weeks behind. The growth was slowing, and I was inconsolable.
Bewildered, the ultrasound tech and John wondered why I had suddenly burst into tears. Through sobs, I brokenly explained that the baby hadn’t grown enough. The tech tried to console me by comparing this week’s measurements to those from two weeks ago. Yes, the baby had grown, but I knew it wasn’t enough. The baby was measuring at 8 ounces (supposedly - spoiler alert: ultrasound measurements can be off). For babies to be viable, most doctors tell you they need to be at least 500 grams, which is a tiny bit over a pound, and at least 24 weeks gestation.
Here we were, three weeks from what should be viability, but the baby was only half the weight he needed to be to viable. From this moment on, I was officially considered “high risk,” and I needed to be monitored very closely. The plan was to do weekly or biweekly growth ultrasounds, routinely check blood flow through the umbilical cord, and run every genetic screening test created. I was also sent to Colombia in the city for another opinion/set of eyes.
At Colombia, I got another ultrasound (again, not much growth), saw a geneticist, got more blood drawn, and got an amnio. The amnio was probably the scariest part solely because of the size of the needle. It was painful, but I was more concerned about how close the needle was to the baby and how much amniotic fluid they were stealing from him or her.
The doctors at Colombia confirmed that blood flow through the umbilical cord was good, which was a positive sign. They also confirmed that although 24 weeks gestation is considered viable, the baby would also need to be 500 grams in order to intubate him or her. We were still a while away from 500 grams (or a pound), so I left that visit feeling pretty discouraged.
All in all, I was twenty-two weeks pregnant, I was trying to be the best incubator I could be, I was eating all the protein I could stomach and drinking all the water my bladder could handle. I spent my days teaching, praying, crying, giving myself pep talks, force-feeding myself, monitoring every little kick I could feel, routinely checking the baby’s heart beat with the Doppler, and counting down until the next growth ultrasound in a week.