Visit to the Specialist
The drive to see the specialist is dreadful. We keep our shameful thoughts private, wrongly assuming that the other would never think such things like… Are we going to be those people who are caring for their thirty-something year-old child because they are disabled from living an unassisted, independent life? Would I really prefer that over the reality of my baby not surviving? Guilt is happy to join us on this drive.
Here we are in the Perinatologist’s office. This is where people go when they are having complicated pregnancies. It’s clear we don’t belong here. Surely they’ll learn that and send us back to our regular doctor.
Our doctor is pleasant. The room is darkened and the doctor peers in via ultrasound to see our little baby all curled up. Hours seem to pass. As he reassuringly pats my knee; Hope walks further out the door. Finally he finishes. The lights go on and it’s time to hear what we already know. The doctor confirms that Baby has virtually no amniotic fluid in the sac that is supposed to be protecting it while in my womb. The doctor gently explains to us that the reason for this is because Baby never developed kidneys and therefore is unable to create the fluid by peeing. “Ok… And?” “And your baby is only expected to live a short time if you decide to continue the pregnancy.”
Our emotions begin to pour down our faces. The doctor explains that it takes a few days to die of kidney failure and we would be able to take the baby home and comfort him or her during that time. I’m starring into my lap, imagining the moment when I go to lift my baby from its bassinet to discover its lifeless, little body. I would have no idea what to do. My thought is interrupted when the doctor considers that, due to the lack of amniotic fluid, Baby’s lungs will be underdeveloped and he or she will die of breathing complications within a few hours, before kidney failure will even begin to affect him/her. We won't get to take our baby home after all. Maybe it's better that way.
The doctor offers the option to terminate the pregnancy, but Colby quickly speaks up and says that is not an option. I sit silently in agreement. The doctor nods understandingly and never brings it up again. I ask him if Baby will experience any pain while in my belly or after it is born. He assures me that the baby is perfectly happy and comfortable in my womb, and because it is living off of my body, I will be able to carry it full-term. Once the baby is born, it will not be in pain and we will get to have that time to comfort him/her until s/he passes.
I think about the many possible times this doctor must have had this conversation with expectant parents in his career. I asked him if these are the only kinds of patients he sees. He smiles kindly, and replies that he sees patients who are having complicated pregnancies, whether because of the baby’s health, the mother’s health, or medical history. “So, you probably have to give news like this quite often?” I ask. “Yes,” he responds with his smile. “That’s a pretty sucky job,” I reply with a half sob, half laugh. “Well…” the doctor trails off.
He then offers us as much time as we need to ourselves, which we accept and spend crying, holding and apologizing to each other. When he returned, he told us that he would have a social worker call us to talk about the non-medical part of this (funeral, I presume?) and we schedule our next appointment together, where we’ll have another ultrasound and discuss what to expect on the day of birth.
Colby and I stroll through the hospital courtyard -the same place where I went through early labor with Reid. We reminisce about that day, pointing out the bench where the security guard offered me a wheelchair, as well as the exact bush I puked in while onlookers pretended not to notice. We drive away with the flowers that Colby bought me in the courtyard and agree that we never imagined something like this would ever happen to us. Now I guess we go tell our moms and the rest of the world.
