Timing
“Have you had the Down syndrome test?”, the sonographer replied.
I had just asked the sonographer if he could find a chin. He could. I was relieved. I don’t know why I wanted to ask. I had no reason to believe there could be anything wrong. For some strange reason the question was itching away and I had finally mustered up the courage to open my mouth and ask. Perhaps I was just trying to sound clever by asking a question most people wouldn’t know to ask. A friend had told me that a sign of a genetic disorder was often indicated in an ultrasound by a missing chin. Not many people would know that.
At that moment, the sonographer’s question made perfect sense. It didn’t even register to read further into it. I had just asked a question relating to genetic disorders and Down syndrome is the garden variety of genetic irregularities. I rationalised that he was addressing my question about the chin - yes, there certainly was a chin and he wanted to reassure me there was no reason to be concerned.
I told the sonographer I hadn’t taken the Down syndrome test. Before he could say anything further, I had explained that I didn’t want to. I wouldn’t want to know as it wouldn’t change anything for us. I didn’t see the point.
The sonographer didn’t miss a heartbeat. The ultrasound conversation continued like clockwork. He was perfectly pleasant and jovial. Everything else looked fine, his heart was strong, all boxes ticked.
A few days after Andrew was born, I recalled the conversation with the sonographer and was struck by the perfect sequence of our discourse. An isolated question about Down syndrome would have sent alarm bells ringing and me into a downward spiral into a pit of anxiety. I was completely oblivious.
I thought how things could have been. I’m not one of those mothers that bonds with her children before they are born. I loathe pregnancy. The constant lethargy, non-stop nausea, the hormone-induced depression. It’s a miracle I don’t self-combust by the time the full nine months is up. Seeding a thought of Down syndrome in this concoction of misery would have turned what little existed in my mind of a developing human being into a medical defect. It would have been horrendously traumatic.
The post-birth diagnosis was still traumatic. But I had already met my son. I had already seen his perfect fingers and toes, his thick black hair, squashed ears and button nose. I had already seen my older son’s eyes light up when I told him Andrew had a skin tag on his ear, just like he did.
Looking back, I’m so grateful for the way the conversation with the sonographer unfolded. It was as if each question and comment had been perfectly orchestrated to protect our hearts in the coming months.
We weren’t dreading a medical defect, we were going to meet our son.