Waiting for Amniocentesis Results

I was thirty-five when I was unexpectedly pregnant for the third time… so unexpectedly that I really did not clue in for weeks. Other than feeling tired — which I attributed to a new evening job — there were no signs. I was still nursing my middle child, and have never suffered from morning sickness. So by the time I realized the failure of birth control, I was on the edge of amniocentesis time.

Given my age, my family GP sent me off for the triple blood screen test, which led to the amnio being scheduled: my numbers, apparently, were very high. “You’re more likely to have a child with Down’s Syndrome than a miscarriage,” was how it was put to me.

I was still reeling from the news of being pregnant; my brain was not going too far beyond that at the moment. I was seventeen weeks in when I went through the test procedure.

The test

The amniocentesis test itself followed what was at least an hour of counseling for “in case…” even though I’d already been sent the same info to read through. And I’d read through with care.

Then I was in the testing room itself. I remember it as being dark and cold. I remember feeling hungry and anxious. I had two children and had not had to go through anything like this before.

There was an enormous screen in front of me, and I could see a large round that was my uterus. I could see the shape that would be my third son. The person administering the test was kindly, and let me know what she was doing as she was doing it.

But nothing prepared me for the moment that lengthy needle went into my abdomen, and entered my uterus; on the screen I could see the thin line plunge in and — without missing a beat, no hesitation — that little bean in there created a corner as far away as he could! The movement was so quick, I was shocked.

My immediate thought — more a feeling than a thought — was how invasive was that needle. I felt suddenly as if I’d gone into somewhere private, some place I did not belong. Which was at odds with how this was all within me.

Of course, pregnancy hormones are wild things, and cause all manner of emotional hookups and breakdowns. I felt that parental thing — the realization how separate our children are. How I have choices — I could have made the decision not to test. We live in a world that tests, even before we consider what we are going to do with the results.

I had given that some thought, but also knew that until confronted with the reality, it’s not easy to come to a decision. Sometimes we don’t want to have to say a solid yes or no until we have to. Sometimes we shouldn’t pre-think.

I was told I’d have the results in three weeks, and to go home, lie down, take it easy. Which I did. I had cramping that frightened me, that made me feel more anxious. But awoke the following morning, feeling fine. Except that three weeks felt like a very long time.

Down the street

In our community, not far away, was a family with four sons. I didn’t know them well. One of my sons spent some bit of time playing with one of theirs. We saw them at hockey games and baseball, and at the grocery store. In a small town, faces and names are familiar.

Even now, when the parents’ faces come to my mind as I write, I recall their smiles, their kindness and thoughtfulness. Patience was something I felt in both parents’ presence; I remember that now, twenty-three years later. I’ve moved now, and lost track of many neighbors from that town.

But I remember how, through those three long weeks, that neighborhood family came to mind; their second son had Downs. He walked, he talked, he attended school. He seemed to be always smiling, happy.

But the other three boys, especially the older ones, who I could see developing as human beings, kept coming to my mind too, and mostly their smiles, their compassionate natures.

And I kept coming back to wondering about the role of their brother’s challenges in the assembling of those compassionate natures.

Three long weeks

Of course, these thoughts did not come immediately to me.

I found myself researching Downs. I talked with my mother-in-law about an aunt’s experience. From all the information and pre-test counseling, I knew that the likelihood of familial Downs was very low — 5%. But I knew that this related child had never walked, talked, had never even sat up. And had died when only a few years old.

What struck me, as I researched, was that, while they might be able to tell me if my child had Downs, there was no way to know the extent of the Downs.

Each of those days, new scenarios played through my mind. And I found myself experiencing feelings that I later recognized as grief. When I did recognize it as such, I thought that if there was one silver-lining to being tested, and being given a positive result, it was that at least this waiting period was giving me a time to grieve now as opposed to with a child in my arms.

What was I grieving? The loss of a picture of “normal”? What a word! But I had to be honest with myself.

And always, throughout the day, and in the middle of a worrying night, my thoughts came to rest on the family down the street — the family who made this seem do-able, and beyond. Beyond to where the entire family had in many ways benefited from their reality, had grown and deepened.

It’s not the end of the world, was the point I hit somewhere in the second week.

And so I began to look at the reality of living with a child with Downs. I read about the need for exercise, about the education and knowledge a parent must work toward… so much to read. But the knowledge and experience was out there and accessible. It all began to seem possible. I could wrap my arms around my belly, and feel at peace.

The phone call

Actually the call came at the twenty day mark; they somehow shaved a day off the results.

Some short time later, a friend of mine who was living in Australia went through the experience of amnio for a pregnancy post age thirty-five. She was given the result within a handful of days — their system being ahead of our slower Canadian, I suppose.

As long as each of those twenty days were, I needed every one of them. I learned, I grew. I accepted. Time is a gift, in its own strange, rather wondrous ways. I continue to learn more about this as I age and experience grown up children, widowhood, and more.

The call was anti-climactic; I’d made up my mind. An other might have decided differently. We each need to have quiet, thoughtful space for this work of decision-making. As was, the test was negative, and the women on the phone asked me if I wanted to know the sex. I laughed and said, “I already know — it’s another boy!”

I often think about the family down the street, and how we learn from each other — so often with nothing said. Just in how lives are well-lived, we support and sustain each other. I knew then that I could knock on their door with a baby in my arms and questions in my heart, and they would have said, “Come in.”

I am grateful.

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This post was previously published on Medium.

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