To Amnio or Not to Amnio

8-25-09

Before getting the most recent test results from the sequential screen—which I am still enjoying and feeling confident about surprisingly enough—I was almost sure that I would undergo amnio. I’d recently read Ayelett Waldman’s Bad Mother where she wrote about choosing amnio because of her belief in her own bad luck. Before Miscarriage World, I was her opposite. I know that shit happens to everyone. It’s certainly happened to me, but for the most part I feel content and lucky for my life. During my first pregnancy I had the typical worries, but was confident that my body knew what it was doing, that every little thing would be alright. I was wrong. And I was wrong again. My faith in my body and my ability to trust my body was shaken to the core. Apparently I didn’t feel a tremor in the force when both of my embryos died. I felt nothing. I kept slogging through my first trimesters until they ended with the ultrasounds of doom.

So when the question of amnio arose this time around, I was feeling more Ayelet Waldman than cockeyed optimist. I oscillated wildly (and not in an instrumental Smiths way).

One moment I was sure I’d do it. “I mean it’s only a 1 in 400 chance of miscarriage and even then they aren’t sure if that would be the same rate of miscarriage without amnio,” I told Mr. Crud during the great amnio deliberations.

He nodded thoughtfully. “It’s still scary.”

Agreed. The thought of causing another miscarriage just because I had to know with 99% certainty that Purvis was genetically okay terrified me. Then I wouldn’t be able to curse fate and the universe. Well, I still could shake my fist at the random injustice but there would be an image of me thrown into the mix. Me doing something out of fear, which is an emotion that I’m always telling others isn’t a wise basis for decision-making.

We got the first round of test results that showed Purvis’ chances for genetic problems were less than my age indicated and my amnio confidence showed hairline fractures.

“Maybe we shouldn’t. I mean what’s the percentage on that? It’s tiny.”

Mr. Crud agreed. He did the math. “Let’s wait for the other results.”

Through all of the deliberations the underlying question troubled me the most. What did it say about me that I was willing to consider terminating a pregnancy if Purvis did have genetic defects? When I encountered a woman who works on campus who has Down’s Syndrome, I silently apologized to her: it’s not you, it’s me. I’m not strong enough. In fact whenever I saw any folks who appeared to have the symptoms of the genetic defects I’d read about I felt ashamed. Who am I to decide?

I acknowledge that I can be selfish. I look out for number one although I try not to let that be the guiding impulse of my life. I imagined raising a child with special needs. Would I feel embarrassed of him or her? Would I feel a tug of longing every time I saw my fabulous nieces and nephew? Why not me? Why does my kid have to be the special one? Questions multiplied while answers hid. Every decision I made, everything I thought I knew could be reversed by a google search or a conversation or a quote from one of my pregnancy books. I found myself wishing for questionable blood test results just so that we didn’t have to make the decision about the test.

Finally the day came. And the results were better than I thought they could be. The same risk as someone half my age for Down’s Syndrome, lower than that for the other genetic problems. I was shocked to feel how quickly my desire for amnio evaporated. Mr. Crud said we should take the weekend to decide. I agreed. But we spent maybe one short conversation on the whole issue. “I don’t think we should do it,” I said.

“Neither do I.”

Mr. Crud didn’t even call back the genetic counselor to see what she meant exactly by amnio being “not recommended.” He let it go. We let it go. And now I feel more so than ever like I’m actually enjoying this pregnancy, that I’m 100% pregnant without qualification.

Not that I still don’t have moments of doubt. (Please pry me from the internet and never let me google again.) Nor have the flashes of worry that all is not well down there in Purvis world disappeared, but when we met with our doula-to-be last weekend, she asked me about my main thoughts and concerns at this time. “Um, where can I find decent maternity clothes for tall ladies?” (Eileen Fisher can only take me so far.)

Now I’m looking ahead to the next benchmarks: my pot belly transforming into a pregnant belly, feeling Purvis kick (felt something kick-like during a quiet moment of yoga that Sunday but I can’t confirm), and our anatomy scan ultrasound when we get back from vacation in a few weeks.

In the meantime, I look forward to chasing my 14-month-old niece around and introducing her to a potbelly named Purvis. Happy vacation!

RANDOM: Come on, Mad Men, Betty Draper doesn’t even walk like she’s pregnant in the least. I find myself jealous of her blissful ignorance while she puffs away, wine glass in hand.

*I meant to post this pre-vacation...but I didn't.