He Takes My Heart With Him

Next step. . . new doctors

My OB's office called two days later. They had received the ultrasound report and my doctor was referring me to a perinatalogist. So unprepared for this journey, I asked the nurse what a perinatalogist was. She explained that this was a doctor that specialized in pregnancies needing extra care. He had extensive experience in dealing with fetuses that had problems. Fetus? I hate that term. He's a baby. My baby.

She gave me my appointment information for this new doctor and told me that I would need to keep all my OB appointments with their office, too, until they knew for sure what was going on. So, I did.

My next two appointments were with my regular OB's office. It's staffed by six different doctors and they rotate which doctor you see. That way, you have met everyone, because whoever is on call will end up delivering your baby. That situation ended up causing me extra heartache.

My husband and I were just beginning to accept the fact that this was happening. We were still holding it close to our hearts and hurting for our baby. Looking back, I realize I should have asked that I see my specific OB/GYN for the rest of my appointments. But, I didn't, because I didn't know. So, at both of my next two appointments, a new doctor walked in, smiled broadly, and asked me how I was doing.

Each time, I just stared at them for a minute. Then, I painstakingly explained that I was fine, but that the baby had some problems. Those poor doctors. They would get serious, quickly, and grab my file, thumbing quickly through it. "I'm sorry. I didn't have time to read your file before I came in," they apologized.

While this hurt at the time, it was actually a blessing from God, because it gave me practice. I was able to tell people about our baby, breaking down only slightly, and become familiar with the terminology. AFP levels. Spinal anomoly. The saccrococcygeal area. Perinatalogist. And the recipients of this information were professionals who were sympathetic and knowledgable. They were caring and reassuring, while understanding the gravity of it all.

So, about a month into this new territory, and baby is a little over halfway grown. Like all expectant mothers, I find myself resting my hand on my stomach, as if caressing the baby's head. I laugh when he kicks me and tell him he's being too wild in there. When I lie in the bathtub, I watch my stomach rolling to one side and then the next. Trying to figure out if it's an elbow or a foot that's pushing on me. And, mostly, I whisper prayers. Picking up the toys at night, "Please, God, let our baby be all right." Walking through the grocery store, "God, just let him be healthy. We can deal with whatever happens, but please let him be healthy." Lying in bed at night, "God, I love this little boy so much. Thank you for sending him to us."