the world doesn't stop just because your world falls apart

For whatever reason, my coping mechanism is words.  So here goes.

Two days ago I had an ultrasound that wasn't as exciting as it should have been.  No parent really *expects* to hear that something could be wrong with your unborn baby.  We have been blessed with two healthy little boys, we have no genetic diseases/mutations in our family, and I'm 31.  I eat better than most, worse than a few.  When the ultrasound was taking 30+ minutes and there were multiple shots of all the organs, I began to have worries, but the baby was moving a lot, so I just wrote it off.

Until, after 45 minutes of ultrasound, I was put in the consultation room, not the exam room.  Still, already feeling a little woozy because eating just isn't my forte right now, I just started getting in touch with patients to let them know I'd be running a few minutes late that afternoon.

The doctor comes in, more somber than she normally does, and asks how I'm feeling.  I tell her the truth (as you should) and she ordered a glucose stick just to check.  With the nurse still trying to get the machine to work, the doctor comes in with pictures.  What I thought was weird on the screen, was in fact, weird.  But I wasn't looking at his foramen magnum (the hole in the bottom of the skull that allows the connection of the brain and spinal cord), I was looking at an enlarged fourth ventricle.  CSF fluid isn't moving.  There were no good shots of the spine, so we can't tell if there's a defect in it at the moment.  He'll have to have shunts.  And I mention that his cerebellum (balance, coordination of movement, but a TON of other things) should be there, and she agrees, but we can't see it.  She says something about a syndrome that starts with a D and W.  All the while another nurse comes in trying to get the stupid glucose reading and the machine won't cooperate.  The doctor goes on.  His renal pelvis is dilated to twice+ its normal size.  Could be something, could be incidental.  She KEEPS going.  But pauses to tell the nurses that I probably don't care about the glucose.  I'll eat something and drink something later.  She isn't sure if his stomach has 2 lobes or not.  We need better pictures for that.  He also has puffy cheeks already.  He's not supposed to have FAT at this point.  Finally, the stupid machine is working.  86.   Well, at least one thing is good today.


In a bit of blur, still trying to process that last two hours, all the information 'possibilities' and trying to figure out what might be the result of these things with nothing more to go on, I get in my car, I back out, I turn left.  Slowly, the flood comes. 

He might not be able to walk.  He might be able to see very well.  He'll have terrible depth perception.  He probably will be significantly delayed physically and likely mentally.  What the hell does a bilobed stomach mean?  Dilated renal pelvis--  deformity or just urine back up?  Do I call Keith, it's a huge day for him at work?  I don't have anybody else to call.  OMG.  He might not be able to breathe well.  His heart might have defects too.  O.M.G.  Will he die?  Will he even be born?  I HAVE to call Keith.

Is my folic acid supplement not enough?  Will potatoes do that?  I mean, that's all I've wanted to eat for like 3 months now.  Can amoxicillian do that?  I've been on it twice during the pregnancy....

Are those crazy strong kicks at 22 weeks because he doesn't have any coordination?  Is my baby hurting, is that why he is constantly rolling and kicking and squirming?  I don't remember the other two being this active. 

At the office (because I have patients coming in this afternoon) Keith calls.  I tell him.  As much as I can.  I'm sure he can't understand much.  I just keep telling him and me, it could be VERY mild... it could be incredibly severe, but it COULD be VERY mild.  I have to get it together, the world doesn't stop just because your world falls apart.  I have patients coming.  I have to be a doctor. I have to get it together.

 Somehow I make it through the next 2 hours.  I get home.  Keith, red eyed at the table, computer open.  I start to recant the afternoon.  Keith just keeps saying "I don't understand.  We don't have anything in our family".  I know.  I know.  Sometimes there are just screw ups.  I start explaining what the cerebellum is, what the vermis is, what the ventricles do, what they aren't doing, what the renal pelvis is, what it could mean.  It can't be Downs.  We don't have it in our family.  I know.  I know.  Sometimes things just get screwed up.  I explain spina bifida and what a meningiocele is.  I finally know why I went to chiropractic school.  This moment.  This day.  To be able to calmly explain the intricacies of the central nervous system.  We both cry.


 I slept on the floor with my boys, holding the hand of the littlest and watching the eldest.

The waiting is the hardest part.  I'm headed to the appointment right now.  A mix of emotions.  Hopeful.  Scared to death.  Furious that somehow life just keeps rolling along around me.  I still had to make lunch for the boys.  I still had to get dressed.  I still had to see patients. Nauseated.  Shaking.  Terrified.  With every move my little Everett makes.  Does he mean to move?  Can he even help it?  Is he hurting?  Will he see?  Will he walk?  Will he make it?

I suppose we're about to go find out our chances.  And may we be equipped to handle whatever is given.