I lie on the examining table and stare up at the small, black screen on the wall. In the upper left-hand corner: my name. Well, husband’s last name, my first name, which still looks weird to me even after 5½ years. In the right-hand corner: the time shown in hours: minutes: seconds. I watch the seconds tick up, 51…52…53…54, as the ultrasound tech squirts gel on my belly and sits in the chair beside me.
“Too warm?” she asks.
I shake my head no, and wait for the tiny, spidery-white face to appear on the black screen. When it appears, the tech switches on the sound and the room fills with a loud and rapid Ba-whoosh, Ba-whoosh.
“Sounds great,” the tech chirps, clicking her computer mouse to measure the space between the beats.
I don’t say anything and she moves the wand around to find the tiny femur bone. She clicks a few times, magnifying it to get a measurement. I focus on the bottom right-hand corner of the screen as she stretches her electronic measuring tape across the baby’s thighbone.
I can see the numbers that measure centimeters, but I keep my eyes on the ones that measure in weeks and days—they’re the only ones I understand. The first click starts somewhere around 26w 8d… She stretches and clicks and stretches and clicks until it ultimately lands on 27w 6d…
I am 29 weeks pregnant as of yesterday.
She pauses to type something into her keyboard, then puts the wand back down on my belly over and over again. Baby’s belly: click, measure, click-click, type. 28w 1d. Baby’s head: click, measure, click-click, type. 27w 5d.
None of the measurements say 29 weeks. I know I can’t expect that. And I won’t know until they’re all calculated whether the results are closer to “still okay” or “time to start worrying.”
Suddenly she stops and freezes the frame. “Do you see that?!” she practically squeals. “That’s my favorite shot!” There, in the center of the usual ultrasound gobbledygook is a crystal clear outline of the baby’s foot, with five perfect toes. She giggles. “See how the baby’s foot is right by its face? I’ve gotta print that one.”
The printer whirs. She hands me a long, shiny roll of black and white pictures. I tell her thank you. I tell her thank you because I don’t know how to tell her that I don’t care about getting more ultrasound pictures. That I have a pile at home of a baby that I never met that I never look at. That the only picture I care about is one that no one can guarantee: one of a live, healthy baby—ex-utero.
She leaves to find the doctor and the screen on the wall is blank again. While I wait in the darkness for the doctor to bring me the results, I fold and refold the roll of photos, and when I’m done, at the top lays a baby’s single, tiny footprint.
I can hear the stress in your voice – I truly pray that you get your wish of holding a baby in your arms. May you find strength.
You are in one of the hardest places to be! Thinking of you!
It is called a footprint because the live foot leaves an imprint to be remembered. Photographs leave us with an imprint of an image to be remembered. You are gathering more imprints, more memories, to be remembered and treasured. All are special. All matter.
Hmm. This was a thought-provoking comment. Not sure if you intended it to be or not, but thank you.
I hope the doctor gave you the news you wanted. The small details you included make this very personal. I will pray for your baby and you.
Oh thanks, Elsie! It was good enough news for now, which is truly good enough for me.
Thanks for writing what had to be a dificult post. It seems that your doctor had good news. I will be thinking of you and sending positive energy your way. Blessings to you and the baby. Jackie http://familytrove.blogspot.com/
There is so much emotion wrapped up into this post. I agree with Elsie about how much the details stood out. I am also pregnant right now, and I was amazed at how well you captured the ultra sound experience and was a bit in awe about how you remembered it all. I was thinking that I would have had to bring in a digital recorder to capture the techs voice or something. Providing all of these details made the final parts of your writing have an even bigger impact. You and your baby will be in my thoughts.
The expectation of a new life is something so totally incomprehensible. I can imagine the anxiety and the thrill all at once,
My stomach is in knots wondering what happened next.
Oh, man. That’s tough. Sending you thoughts and prayers that the remainder of your pregnancy goes as smoothly as possible. ((( hugs )))
This was so tough to read – I’ve been there and you explained “there” – the place filled with hope and pain – so beautifully.
I can only imagine how nerve-wracking such a situation would be. The best of luck to you and your baby.
Oh wow, this is in real time, I see from one of the comments. I know what it’s like when the techs conversation is so different from the internal one in the head (not from ultrasound, but other tests). I hope you receive good news about the baby soon!
Good luck!
Although I have not had a late-term loss, I did have two miscarriages. Knowing how fragile the line between baby and no baby is makes pregnancy so difficult. And almost unreal until you are holding the baby. Many, many hugs. And best wishes always.
I wish I could reach through the internet and give you a big hug. I can only imagine being in that situation.
I am praying, always.
oh how i can relate to this. my first really wanted pregnancy ended in a m/c and d&c. my second pregnancy took 9 long months to come. those following 9 months were spent trying to just breathe and not worry. i felt SO SO SO guilty b/c i couldn’t really connect with my baby until i was near the end of the pregnancy. i couldn’t allow my heart to fully connect. even today, 3+ years later, with a gorgeous aweosome fabulous kid, i kind of back off when others, currently pregnant, bask in their pregnancy. 😦 i HATE that i can’t be more excited but… the absolute heartache of losing is something i would never ever wish on anyone.
Oooh! I’m feeling your emotions through your words. This is such a wonderful written piece about one of the most difficult things a mother can experience. You and your husband are in my thoughts.
sending you so much love and strength. Beautifully written piece.
I hope all the rest of your news is good.
I love the way you show and don’t tell, so that we know what’s going on, but not because you outline it for us! It’s fabulous. And yes, we are close to one another! I’m 33 and a half weeks. I hope the best for you and your little one!
I pray everything will be fine and that you will have a perfectly healthy baby.