Stabbed. Or not.
I will set the stage. I am 23 weeks pregnant and just had a follow up ultrasound. At 20 weeks you are supposed to get an ultrasound where they say "It's a boy! See that tiny little spec? That's a penis." Then the dad says something stupid like "watch what you call tiny heh heh heh." Or "It's a girl!" and the aggressive father steps out of the room in anger despite his sperm causing the little lady to begin with. Yes now two different ultrasound techs have said that they have men leave the room in anger. Of course those are toxic men and most I'm sure are giddy to have any healthy child.
So we went to the appointment at 20 weeks and it went well until the doctor said we needed a follow up. "It's probably fine because you took the Trisomy 13 test and that came back negative, but you have a marker for Down Syndrome with a small nasal bridge and we just want to follow up. And we didn't get a good look at generic-anatonimcal-term-that-no-one-outside-of-a-doctor-or-nurse-can-say-spell-or-repeat-so-good-luck-trying-to-remember-it."
And this is where my analogy begins. It was like the doctor set out a small dagger. Silver, 3 inch blade, something that wouldn't kill you immeidately but it definitely could if weilded by a Mercutio type. She laid it out on the table and said "There is a 99% change I will not stab you, ok? Don't worry about it. Don't Google it." Meanwhile she had a bone saw. She placed in under a little towel in the room and didn't mention it again, so I didn't think much of it.
My follow up appointment comes, and after intense Google searching and some crying and general depression and anxiety I was looking forward to hearing that the 1% risk of stabbing was done. The baby probably just has a small nose and he will be fine. No stabbing today! It would be a relief. Instead they cancelled my appointment due to road conditions and I proceeded to handle it about as well as an angry monkey with a handful of poop staring at their enemy. "You are not going to say I need a follow up to see if I am being stabbed, make me wait for two weeks anxious about a potential stabbing, then cancel this ok? I am not waiting any more to see if you are about to freaking stab me! I will go to a hospital and demand they tell me if they are about to stab me ok? And I will write a review online about how shitty your stabbing services are!" I ended up getting in the next day because someone cancelled. That day was today.
I went into the ultrasound with high hopes. Probably not getting stabbed I comforted myself with. Just a 1% chance. The tech did her thing, I waited for a while, then doctor comes in. I see the dagger in the corner of the room, and a dagger disposal box. I am feeling confident! She instead brings that bone saw and sets it in her lap. Intimidated I say nothing. I proceed to lay in silence as she gives me an additional ultrasound. We stare at a screen of brown blobs as she tries to make a line connect across a circle, my babies brain. No such luck. The silence continues. I want to cry. This isn't normal. The bone saw bumps as she taps her legs and fiddles with the machine.
She stops after some time. "Well" she says as she walks over to the dagger. "I think the nasal bridge is fine." And she drops the dagger into the dagger disposal. It would be a relief if she wasn't holding bone saw. "Here's the thing. His brain either has a very small insane-medical-term-you-can't-Google-because-it-sounds-like-perunum-and-you're-pretty-sure-that's-in-your-butt or... the medical-term is not there. If it's not there I can stab you with this bone saw. Much worse than a dagger if you ask me. She smiles consolingly. You may live. Some babies without this medical-term are totally fine. Or I may stab you... and your baby will have severe developmental issues."
I ask a follow up question "like severe in that he'd be a vegetable level?" "No, not vegetable level, but severely developmentally delayed and seizures. I just can't tell. So I am not going to stab you. Yet." I look at the dagger disposal, that little three inch knife was so much kinder looked. I think to myself. "There is no percentage to give you. There is not liklihood or unliklihood of stabbing. It's all a possibility. I may stab you. I may not. I have the tool here. You're here."
She studies the blade running her finger over it before the ultrasound tech comes in to help her. Confirm for me if I am about to be stabbed. Just get it done. After some more ultrasounded she says "I will consult to get you a new speciailist. He is excellent! He will take an MRI. He cannot stab you at all! Because MRI's can't be around metal. Instead he has a crossbow. Shoot to kill. Very clean and precise. Or you'll get a back massage. No inbetween. It just depends. How does Monday sound?"
Needless to say I left the office and cried. I suppose I won't be stabbed, but maybe I'll be shot. I'll find out Monday. The odds are no longer 99% but rather truly unknown. Either you will or won't. We can't tell. And I don't know what the hell they were saying is potentially wrong with his brain, so I can't research further. That actually makes it better. I may be shot with a crossbow, but at least I can't Google the different crossbow varieties. I'll find out Monday. Pregnancy truly is just so fucking grand. Magical really. Like Mordor.
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