the first time in my pregnancy history, I had no wait time. Efficiency at a doctor‘s office was never a good sign. I saw it as underscoring the severity of my condition. We were immediately escorted from the comfortable waiting area and into one of the exam rooms. Jessica pulled out a chair from against the wall so I could sit. She opened up a green binder, which I could only assume was our chart, and scanned the documents. She started a long list of questions. She carefully noted everything we said, smiled and looked up at us.
“I think I have everything I need for now. Our sonographer will be in shortly to do your ultrasound.”
I leaned back in my chair, trying to find a comfortable position—an impossible task when you have a bowling ball under your blouse. There was zero chance of this experience being anything but unpleasant and unsettling.
There was a knock on the door about two minutes later. A young brunette, probably about my age, came in holding our chart.
“I’m going to be doing your ultrasound today,” she said. “If you can sit on the exam chair, we can go ahead and get started.”
I slid off the waiting room chair and hoisted myself on the exam chair. I lie back slowly. I felt like a snail gliding along the leather; if only I could bury and retract into my shell to avoid predators the way they do.
“You okay, sweetie?” Ed said offering me his arm.
“Not really,” my voice was soft and low. “But I just want to get this over with.”
He nodded in agreement.
I opened my mouth and began to say, “I think once—” but the tech cut me off midsentence.
“I need you to stop talking please, so I can concentrate on the ultrasound. I need it to be quiet.”
She lacked bedside manner—to say the least. Come on, chick, I wanted to tell her. I know this is your job and you see “cases” like me all the time, but would it kill you to smile and be nice? We are going through a lot right now.
My ultrasound scans with Dr. Cooper were always quick, lasting only about five minutes, and with Dr. Bill in the past couple of months, they had usually lasted around twenty minutes. But today with tech Barbie, it felt like the scan took forever. I looked up at the clock on the wall and saw an entire hour had gone by. How much longer? Ed and I sat in complete silence as she continued to scan my belly. Scan, glide across, repeat. Scan, glide across, repeat. She said nothing, only grimaced, and meticulously jotted her findings in a notebook.
A few times I interrupted the silence and asked, “What do you see?” or “What does that mean?” Her reply was always delivered in a stoic tone.
“The doctor is really the best one to go over the ultrasound findings with you. I’m not supposed to say anything.”
“Well can I ask, sorry, how much longer is this going to be?” I lowered my head expecting her to bite it off.
“We can take a break if you need to sit up, but it will just delay us.”
“When you are twenty-three weeks pregnant with twins, its painful to be in any position for a long time, let alone on my back,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Let me just finish measuring the amniotic fluid, and then I can send in the heart sonographer to meet with you.”
Heart sonographer? Oh right, to look at the babies’ hearts—another thing Ed had read about online.
“Okay,” I said. Ed and I exchanged glances, like prisoners in custody awaiting our fate. We resumed sitting in nervous silence and awkwardness until she finished. As I waited, I couldn’t help but think about the other patients there. Was there another mom going through this on the other side of the wall? Another mom and dad scared for the health and safety of their baby‘s life? How many tears were shed in this office daily?
When the tech Barbie left the room, the heart sonographer walked in as if on cue. He was a young guy in his mid-thirties with red-hair and freckles. I wanted to break the ice and say something—a heart joke—anything to try and lighten the intensity in the room.
“Hearts will never be made practical until they can be made unbreakable,” I said smiling gently.
“Excuse me?” he looked at me in utter confusion.
“It‘s from The Wizard of Oz?” Ed said.
“Yes,” I nodded. “One of our favorites—we watch it with our little girl.”
“Oh okay,” the tech said.
He didn’t introduce himself, he just told me that we needed to get started with the exam.
It seemed odd to allow a stranger to massage oil all over my belly—what is normally a very intimate act. Even more than that, I permitted a stranger to peer into the world of my womb to determine what had gone awry before Ed and I knew. And, all the while, we exchanged so few words. Shouldn’t Ed and I be the first to know? Shouldn’t the techs be giving us a play-by-play of the action? We wanted to know what he could see and gather from the ultrasound.
Specifically, what damage had the blood transfusion caused? Were the babies’ hearts okay? And their bladders? Would we have to have surgery? Would this cause the babies any lasting effects?
Ed tried asking again, but the tech just smiled and said it was best to wait for Dr. Miller to explain everything fully. We continued with the scans and endured more egregious waiting for them to be completed. When he was done with his analysis, he left the room. We waited some more. In total, we waited about two hours. The pressure was building in my back, and my sciatic nerve hurt like hell. How much more of this torture would I have to withstand? Finally, Jessica came back into the room.
“Dr. Miller will discuss the results with you now,” she said extending her arm to help me out of the exam chair. “Come right this way to the conference room.”
We were finally going to find out the severity of the disease. Terror manifested itself. deep inside me. I could feel the chunks of bagel I’d had for breakfast threatening to forcefully come back up. I took a deep breath and wiped my sweating palms on my skirt. The consultation room was very different from the waiting area. It was what I imagined a modern-day psychiatric hospital room would look like. The walls were blank—no posters of sleeping newborns, no floral artwork, no seaside landscapes, no TV—nothing but white-painted sheetrock and laminate floors. There was a tiny window on the far-right wall, and in the middle of the room stood a round, wooden table with cushioned chairs. There was a large whiteboard on the opposite wall and a side table stocked with different colored Expo markers and erasers. Jessica turned and left the room, and a brief few seconds later, a tall doctor appeared in the doorway. He was wearing dark blue scrubs and looked as if he just came out of surgery. He pulled off his hat and introduced himself.
“Hello there, Mr. and Mrs. Duffy, I’m Dr. Andrew Miller. Call me Andy. I’m one of the MFMs here at the Fetal Center.” He had a gentle voice—not soft, but not abrasive either. He had piercing blue eyes and a moustache; his hair was gray with traces of white. He reached for our file which Jessica had set on the table.
“Why don’t we all have a seat,” he motioned for us to sit around the conference table. “Can we get you two anything to drink? Or a snack?”
“Oh yes please, I’ll take
