Chicken Soup for the Soul: Twins and More
BY: Sara Matson
All who would win joy must share it; happiness was born a twin.
~Lord Byron
"There's the heartbeat," the ultrasound tech says, pointing to a tiny blinking dot on the dark screen. "Everything looks fine."
I breathe a sigh of relief. It is the ninth week of my second pregnancy, and so far my body displays none of the signs that showed up the first time -- signs that eventually led to the death of my son, Luke.
That was less than a year ago. I haven't finished grieving, but the landscape of my life seems so barren without the baby I should have had that I summon the courage to try again. As soon as I learn I am pregnant, I visit my high-risk specialist and am reassured by the sight of that blinking heartbeat. There is a baby in there and, so far, all is well. I sail through the second visit.
By this one, the third, I am starting to relax a little.
And then the tech says, "Hold on a minute."
We are silent -- the doctor, my husband Jory, and I -- as the tech shifts the probe and stares at the screen. Then he and the doctor confer in low voices. Finally, the doctor turns to me.
"We're not sure what we're seeing here," he says. "There is something unusual on the screen, but it could be the ultrasound. We're going to move you into a room with a bigger machine."
Heart pounding, I cling to my husband's hand. "What might it be?" I ask the doctor in a shaky voice.
He looks a little like Santa Claus -- white hair and beard, wire-rimmed glasses, and, even though it is March, a red and green tie.
"We're not sure," he answers kindly. "It could be the same problem you had last time, but let's not jump to conclusions. Why don't you stay here while we get the room set up?"
I wait, blinking back tears. It's impossible not to relive the downward spiral of my first pregnancy. First spotting, then cramping. Weekly checkups, multiple ultrasounds and, finally, a dark, depressing, three-week hospital stay that resulted in the severely premature birth of my son. Then his death. It was so wrong -- and now it might be happening again.
Soon I am ushered to a room down the hall and hooked up to a machine with a better resolution. Jory and I hold sweaty hands while the tech again moves the probe and confers quietly with the doctor. Finally, they agree.
The doctor faces us. I grip Jory's hand and breathe deeply, steeling myself for bad news.
"Let me show you what's going on here." He points to a dark circle on the screen, in the center of which is a white smudge. "Here's the baby. You can see the heartbeat."
I nod.
Then he points to another, smaller circle, below and to the left of the first.
"And here," he says, "is the other baby."
"The other baby?" I repeat dumbly.
Looking more like Santa Claus than ever, he smiles. Then he says the words that change my life forever, bringing joy to my broken heart and rainbows of color to my empty landscape.
"You're having twins."
~Lord Byron
"There's the heartbeat," the ultrasound tech says, pointing to a tiny blinking dot on the dark screen. "Everything looks fine."
I breathe a sigh of relief. It is the ninth week of my second pregnancy, and so far my body displays none of the signs that showed up the first time -- signs that eventually led to the death of my son, Luke.
That was less than a year ago. I haven't finished grieving, but the landscape of my life seems so barren without the baby I should have had that I summon the courage to try again. As soon as I learn I am pregnant, I visit my high-risk specialist and am reassured by the sight of that blinking heartbeat. There is a baby in there and, so far, all is well. I sail through the second visit.
By this one, the third, I am starting to relax a little.
And then the tech says, "Hold on a minute."
We are silent -- the doctor, my husband Jory, and I -- as the tech shifts the probe and stares at the screen. Then he and the doctor confer in low voices. Finally, the doctor turns to me.
"We're not sure what we're seeing here," he says. "There is something unusual on the screen, but it could be the ultrasound. We're going to move you into a room with a bigger machine."
Heart pounding, I cling to my husband's hand. "What might it be?" I ask the doctor in a shaky voice.
He looks a little like Santa Claus -- white hair and beard, wire-rimmed glasses, and, even though it is March, a red and green tie.
"We're not sure," he answers kindly. "It could be the same problem you had last time, but let's not jump to conclusions. Why don't you stay here while we get the room set up?"
I wait, blinking back tears. It's impossible not to relive the downward spiral of my first pregnancy. First spotting, then cramping. Weekly checkups, multiple ultrasounds and, finally, a dark, depressing, three-week hospital stay that resulted in the severely premature birth of my son. Then his death. It was so wrong -- and now it might be happening again.
Soon I am ushered to a room down the hall and hooked up to a machine with a better resolution. Jory and I hold sweaty hands while the tech again moves the probe and confers quietly with the doctor. Finally, they agree.
The doctor faces us. I grip Jory's hand and breathe deeply, steeling myself for bad news.
"Let me show you what's going on here." He points to a dark circle on the screen, in the center of which is a white smudge. "Here's the baby. You can see the heartbeat."
I nod.
Then he points to another, smaller circle, below and to the left of the first.
"And here," he says, "is the other baby."
"The other baby?" I repeat dumbly.
Looking more like Santa Claus than ever, he smiles. Then he says the words that change my life forever, bringing joy to my broken heart and rainbows of color to my empty landscape.
"You're having twins."
http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2011/04/The-Ultrasound.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru
Комментариев нет:
Отправить комментарий