D-Day

19 weeks and 6 days. November 16^th, 2012. D-day is what I call it now: diagnosis day.

I woke up (and I use the term ‘woke up’ loosely, as that would imply that I got some actual sleep) feeling over the moon. The day I would get to see my baby again was finally here! For those of you non-pregnancy buffs out there, the 18-20 week mark is when they do a super detailed scan of your baby to check for any red flags, health wise. To say that I wasn’t worried, like, at all would be a bit of a lie. I am a worrier, by nature. Somewhere deep behind my elation there was a little nagging feeling of “what if?” It was nowhere near enough to scare me or make me feel like I needed to prepare myself for bad news, so I made lunch plans with my boyfriend (let’s call him B) for after the ultrasound, snapped a quick photo for my Facebook pregnancy group and we made our way to the clinic.

When we got called back, everything started off perfectly normal – just like any of the ultrasounds I had already had. I was trying not to pee my pants, and the cheerful ultrasound tech was asking questions about my pregnancy as she took baby’s measurements. She asked if I wanted to know the gender and I said that I was told a few weeks ago that we were having a boy. She said that’s what it looked like to her as well, and I told her the name we had picked out. All of a sudden, it was like a switch went off and her demeanour completely changed. She lost her cheerful tone as a look of concentration spread across her face. I could tell she was trying to be professional by the way she explained what we were looking at, but I could also tell that something more was going on. My heart was in my throat, but I was too scared to ask.

She was looking at baby’s spine.

She measured and stared as she snapped photo after photo, the corners of her mouth showing the faintest hint of a frown. Every word that left her mouth was calm, cool and calculated. Each click of the mouse brought on a new wave of fearful nausea in the pit of my stomach. After that, she moved to baby’s brain.

I held it together long enough for the ultrasound to be done. Afterwards, she told me to stick around as she was going to have me speak to a doctor before I left. She closed the door, and my lip started to tremble as I looked at B. “Something’s wrong with our ba-“ I said, but my breath caught in my throat before I could finish my sentence. I tried to swallow, but my throat was too dry. “You don’t know that, please don’t cry” was his response, but it felt far away. It was like my body was preparing for the impending terrible news by trying to shut down. Even now, as I type these words, I can feel my chest getting tight and the tears start to form as the memory of that moment comes back to me. I was so scared. A few minutes later, she came back and directed us to a room where we would sit and wait for the doctor. Three chairs, some magazines and a portable ultrasound machine. The room felt cold. Sterile. I managed to slightly regain my composure while we waited, but as soon as he came into the room and sat down, a solemn look on his face, I knew it wasn’t good.

What he said was a complete blur until I heard the words “spina bifida” come out of his mouth. Aside from maybe reading those words a few times during my baby research, I had never heard of it before. I tried to listen carefully to what the Doctor was saying. Something about 3 different types. Can’t definitively diagnose which type until we get a “level 2 ultrasound.” Amniocentesis. Possible complications: lower limb paralysis, muscle weakness, loss of bowel/bladder control, fluid build up in the brain, issues with eating and sometimes even breathing. I felt like I was punched in the stomach. I don’t even know how I was crying with no air left in my lungs, but I vaguely remember being doubled over in the black leather recliner wondering where those faint sobs in the background were coming from. I tried to concentrate through the haze, and then it hit me. It was me. Those sobs were coming from me. After awhile, the Doctor left. I will never forget the look of sympathy on his face as our eyes met before he closed the door behind him. I’m not sure how long we stayed in that room, but I was still sobbing as we left and I can still see the concerned stares from complete strangers as B helped me to his car.

The rest of my day consisted of crying, numbness and sleeping. Somewhere in the midst of all this, I wrote this to my Facebook group:

“I’m absolutely devastated. I just had my ultrasound this morning, and my little boy was diagnosed with spina bifida. They don’t know how severe it is yet, I have a more detailed ultrasound Wednesday morning. This is by far the worst day of my entire life, and I could really use some positive vibes sent my way for Wednesday morning. I’m shocked, devastated and beyond terrified. I don’t know what to do or how I’m going to make it to Wednesday without knowing anything more.”

It turns out, I made it to Wednesday by surviving on the love and support of the incredible people in my life. My parents dropped everything and made the 8 hour trip to Calgary so they could be with me for the level 2 ultrasound. My best friend (who was no longer staying with us to complete her practicum) offered to make the trip down from Edmonton. B made sure I ate, held me as I cried and gave me space when I needed it. I tried my best to stay away from Dr. Google, but my desire to arm myself with information (even if it was worst-case-scenario information) got the best of me. I wanted to know anything and everything there was to know about spina bifida so I could make sense of what would happen on Wednesday.