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Starting
Point No
guarantees, but there are reasons for hope
By ROBIN TAYLOR
Sometimes one phone call changes
everything. One moment, Im sitting at my desk feeling glum on a July Utah
afternoon. The dog is napping there on the futon, and its too hot to make
her move. Then the phone rings, and a chap named Brent or Brandt, Im
never sure, tells me there is something off with my recent blood work done at
the hospital, and my baby, our first, has a higher than expected chance of
being born with Down syndrome, and if we want to know for sure, we can have an
amniocentesis done. Bye bye.
Afterwards, nothing matters much. Not the heat, or the bad dog, or
my stalled journal writing. All that matters is the scrap paper where Ive
scribbled numbers like one out of 180, the apparent risk that the baby has
Downs, and the percentage right after it, 99.5, which is what Brent said
were the odds that everything was fine. This should be a comfort. Its
not.
I call my husband, who is working overtime, and he says hell
be home soon. Hes better with crises than I am.
This is when the numbers games begin. What does 1/180 mean,
anyway? If you had a 1/180 chance of getting hit by a car when you walked out
of the house tomorrow morning, would you call in sick? If you had a 1/180 shot
of hitting the big jackpot in Las Vegas, would you spend your last dollars
there? My husband arrives and calms me as best he can. He puts two decks of
cards together and asks me to pull the four of hearts. I dont, of course.
See? he says. The odds were greater that you would pull that
card than that our baby has Downs. This helps some.
There is still a lingering fear, though, a gray mist that has
moved onto the horizon, one that shows no signs of going away.
I realize that I dont know a whole lot about courage and
waiting. I like quick answers that immediately put my mind at ease.
Amniocentesis would do this. Except for the 1/220 chance that Id then
miscarry the baby, healthy or not. The thought that I had intentionally
undergone a procedure that took my babys life just to put my paranoid
heart at ease -- that would be unbearable.
A month or so later, I go to the hospital for a level two
ultrasound. Though not conclusive, these tests are safe and often show if a
baby has Downs tendencies. The good doctor bustles in, rubs gel on my
belly, doesnt seem to notice that I am on the verge of tears, and after a
long silence says that the babys heart looks fine, that there are no
obvious symptoms of Downs. He buzzes out again. I forgot to ask if the
doctor has seen the babys gender. I wander back through the hospital
halls, looking for the doctor, to see if he noticed. I find the young
technician instead. I saw, she said.
We are going to have a daughter. Of course, the tech could be
wrong. Well know for sure once shes born.
Finally, that day is drawing near: Right around New Years,
they say. All summer I longed for Halloween, for Thanksgiving, for stores to
put up their Christmas displays, for the holiday movies to air again on TV.
Those would be evidence that time was passing, that the babys arrival was
upon us.
Today, I still wait. Though the signs look good, we still
dont know for certain about our babys health. My husband reminds me
that its just the first of many worries that will be part of our
parenting journey. I hate that our world is one where babies die of rare
diseases, and toddlers are abducted, and high school students drink themselves
to death. Ive already learned how quickly it all can change, that there
are no guarantees. But in this season of new beginnings, Im remembering
all the reasons there are for hope.
The dog sleeps on the futon again, dreaming of rabbits and long
runs through desert sage. The baby rumbles and tumbles in my belly. The furnace
roars to life, and icicles melt off the roof. Snow is in the forecast. The fear
that plagued me for a good part of the summer disappeared somewhere along the
way. Now, there is nothing to do but wait for this child, our long-desired one.
Jesus will be with her, with all of us who love her, and will come to us in a
new way with her birth. We yearn for this arrival. May it come soon.
Robin Taylor writes from Salt Lake City, where she can be
reached at Tumblestick@aol.com
National Catholic Reporter, January 5,
2001
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