Scanning

When it comes to pregnancy, New York holds a lot of bad memories for me. I’ve written before about my ill-fated first pregnancy, though I won’t go into details. But I will say that the 20-week ultrasound scan was the start of the horrific events that marked pregnancy #1. And Friday, I was all set to go to my current 20-week scan, at the same hospital as before, having been sent there by the same doctor as before. (I avoided all this in pregnancy #2 by moving across the country.)

There were dozens of reminders of that first time — the walk from the subway to the hospital; the seat where I filled out paperwork; the row of dark examination rooms; the door to the genetic counselor’s office. But I’ve already had testing that ruled out what happened before, which gave me some reassurance. I’ve also generally had a good feeling about this pregnancy, and, since that first time, I have had a beautiful little boy. Also, this time I brought my husband with me for the procedure. But it was still tough to go into that 20-week scan, knowing that it’s not just an occasion to see your baby close-up, it’s also an opportunity to find out that something could be wrong — very wrong.

I had to recount my medical history for the technician, and she dutifully explained that she wouldn’t be able to give me any results herself. That would have to wait for the doctor who would come in later. But she didn’t help by asking questions about my first pregnancy while she was looking at the brain. “What were the markers that you saw before?” she asked, leading us both to wonder whether something had appeared this time. I gripped my husband’s hand tightly, and we waited for the doctor to come in and break the news.

And when he did, he told us everything looked fine. It all looked fine. I almost couldn’t believe it. When he’d left, we hugged and our eyes teared up with relief, and also with amazement that we will soon be adding another little boy to our family.