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“This won’t be a long scan,”Angie tells me after she’s got me splayed out on the table and a medieval torture device shoved up my hoo-ha. “I’m basically just checking the heartbeat. Do you know how far along you are?”
I wince as the probe pushes up against an unexpectedly sensitive spot, and the woman flinches in solidarity. “Sorry,” she mumbles, not really looking at me. All of her attention is either on the screen or between my legs.
I’m hoping she can’t tell how bright I flush in the dark lighting of the exam room.
“No, actually,” I admit. “I didn’t know I was pregnant until the doctor told me last night. I take the pill, and—” I swallow to bring the moisture back to my mouth. “I thought I’d had a period last month, but we’d been having a rough time the last few weeks. Not my husband and I—” I hurry to defend.
Even though, we were. The three of us were broken. We were broken, yet somehow, we still created life. Gods. I hope Remi is okay…
I have to clear my throat and bring my fingers to my eyes to wipe away the moisture.
Angie nods her head.
“Stress will do it. My third pregnancy was like that. I went in to get my tubes tied and found out I was pregnant from the pre-op blood work,” she laughs. “I was already stripped and hooked up to the I.V., just waiting to go. To say we were surprised was an understatement.”
Jesus! I can’t even imagine the shock that must have been.
Though, maybe I can.
“What happened?” I all but whisper. My heart is in my throat and I wipe my hands off on the blanket draped over my legs. She must hear the fear in my voice because she searches my face out in the dimness and gives me a warm, genuine smile. Her eyes go soft at the edges, and her voice is gentle when she speaks.
“We had a third baby, born twelve months and two days after the last,” Angie says ruefully. “And I got my tubes tied at his delivery.” I join in on her laughter, perfectly able to imagine that conversation. “It was unexpected, but not unwelcome. After we wrapped our heads around it at least. It may take some time, but you’ll wrap your head around it too.”
My eyes drift from hers to the screen and the black-and-white fizziness that I can’t make sense of.
“Oh, I’m getting there,” I whisper, and her chest huffs in a silent chuckle.
“So,” she says, getting down to business. The speaker blooms to life from the ultrasound, seeming to fill and bloom from every corner of the room. I suck in a gasp of air and hold my breath, listening to the too-fast beating of butterfly wings.
“Is that…?”
“Yes ma’am,” Angie confirms, grinning ear to ear. She gives another painful jab with the ultrasound wand, but this time I barely even feel it. “Pumping away at a healthy 158 beats per minute.”
With one hand she presses the wand and with the other she clicks keys on the keyboard, a clicking sound erupting every few seconds.
“See here,” she starts, pointing at the screen. “That black circle is your uterus. We don’t quite have hands and feet yet, but you can see where the arms and legs are forming.” Her pinky highlights the protruding digits, the entire blob looking nothing so much as like a gummy bear. “There’s the umbilical cord,” she says, “and that fluttering right in the middle is the heart.”
My heart speeds up to match until another sharp jab of the probe between my legs makes me laugh and cringe and the screen wiggles until I freeze in a panic of messing up the picture.
“Almost done,” Angie says sympathetically. I don’t want it to be done, though. Not yet. I…I couldn’t have imagined being ready to have a baby this time yesterday. Today, I can’t imagine never having had this moment.
This feeling of utter completeness that is singing through my bloodstream.
“Can I…?” I lift my phone and am already opening my video app before she gives the all-clear. I zoom in as close as I dare while keeping the picture clear and whole and record the first video of our baby’s beating heart.
“According to your file and the bloodwork, you should be around eight weeks. By my count, you look about eight weeks, three days. I’ll take a few measurements, print out a few pictures, and then we’ll be all done.”
“Can I have at least three?” I ask without thinking first. One for each of us.
“Absolutely. We need one for every wallet and one for every office. Five or six at least.”
My hands are shaking when the printer starts to spit out picture after picture. I reach for them, then jump…and get jabbed for my troubles…when my phone starts to ring. I feel like I’m coming out of my skin I’m so excited!
“Sorry! Sorry!” I plead, fumbling for my phone in the blanket. “It’s my husbands. Can you…can we do it one more time?”
I realize too late I said husbands in the plural, but either she doesn’t catch it, or doesn’t understand. Angie gives me a smile and another stab to the cervix, and that most beautiful of sounds fill the exam room for a second time.
