This week’s fine print: apparently “routine scan” is a very loose term
The 20-week scan was supposed to be the fun one.
My partner (D) had managed to get a few hours away from work, which wasn’t always easy, and we were excited because this was the scan where we’d get to see baby boy properly.
(Yes I wanted to do a gender reveal. Yes I said fuck that and opened the NIPT email as soon as it came through at 12 weeks… whoops)
As far as we knew, it was also going to be the last scan before birth.
Lol.
A few measurements. A good look at the baby. A lot of, “he’s a cheeky boy!” and “oh he’s very active isn’t he!”
We had a young nurse doing the scan, lovely and upbeat.
Then half way through, she told us she wanted her senior to have a look. “Nothing serious, just another set of eyes!” Yeah right.
Instantly, my brain went:
Hmm
I am, unfortunately for myself, very aware when it comes to medical things.
I listen. I pick up on terminology. I notice when someone changes tone. I notice when something gets measured for the second, third or fourth time. I notice when there is more concentration than normal in the room.
I had already picked up on it. Nobody had said anything yet.
But the second the senior nurse took over. I knew.
There is a very specific kind of atmosphere in a medical room when someone is trying not to concern you.
And if you are smart enough to pick up on it. It is not reassuring. It does not, in fact, make you feel calm.
They finished up the scan saying they were “unable to get good measurements of some of the parts of baby’s heart.”
We were sent up to fetal medicine. Then sent to another hospital.
That is when it felt really serious.
I kept my calm all day that day. Until I got home (to my parents house as we were still looking to buy).
My brother had parked in my fucking car spot.
That was it.
Apparently that was the thing.
Not the possible life-threatening heart condition.
The car spot.
The fucking car spot.
I absolutely lost my shit.
Screaming.
Crying.
Full breakdown.
Over parking.
Excellent. Very dignified.
My poor brother, copping strays left right and centre thoughout this journey.
I was still weirdly calm. And to be honest, I remained that way through this whole journey. Partly because I understood what they were saying. I knew enough medical terminology to follow conversations that others would get lost in.
Eavesdropping was a very useful skill of mine I was able to use to ensure I knew everything the professionals knew. I always knew it would come in handy.
D on the other hand? No idea. They may as well have been speaking in Mandarin. More stunned than a deer in headlights, bless his little cotton socks.
And then we were told they were concerned he may have hypoplastic left heart syndrome.
HLHS.
A lovely little acronym that came to mean still not much for D, but far too much for me.
The way that it was explained to us, was that the left side of his heart was smaller than the right side. The confusion before the potential diagnosis was whether his right side was swollen, or the left side was small. Unfortunately, it was the latter. The left side, rather inconveniently, is the side that does most of the heavy lifting.
So if it really was HLHS, this wasn’t one of those things where they could just, “keep an eye on it.”
It could be extremely serious, life-threatening serious.
And still, somehow, I was calm.
And as I have had time to reflect on this, I know exactly how I kept it together the entire journey with our baby.
I trusted myself, and I trusted baby. But most of all, I didn’t let myself hope.
I get it, that sounds morbid.
But in the same breath I didn’t let myself worry. I took every new bit of information as it came. Baby could go backwards. He could go forwards. But I wasn’t going to sit around thinking about what could happen. I was told he was safe inside, and if there was anything wrong, it wouldn’t become a problem until he was earth-side. That was the only fact I let myself live in.
I will admit, my calm was tested when we were given “options”.
Termination was brought up. Quality of life was discussed.
We were told that if it was HLHS, there could be significant implications for his future. Three surgeries to fix the issue, and the first one having a 2 in 3 mortality rate.
I can’t lie. That stat rocked me.
But nothing had been diagnosed. Everything was borderline, my entire pregnancy.
Would he be a normal kid?
Would he be able to run? Play sport? Become a football star?
We were moved to another hospital. “The only one in the country that deals with this condition.”
Holy shit this is real bad.
Assigned a cardiologist. Bi-weekly scans.
Then a new cardiologist, my one had gone on sabbatical. Of course.
I was not happy. (Turns out this was for the better, but we will get into that at another time).
And then we were left in limbo.
Because he was borderline. Nothing could really known until birth.
He might be fine!
He might require life-saving intervention!
Who knows!
And that is where I’m going to leave you too. In limbo. Until next time.
Our “routine” 20-week scan, turned into an absolute shit show.
A bunch of medical jargon, a terrifying possible diagnosis, several referrals, and me crying over a driveway.
So, you know.
Pretty standard Tuesday.
Motherhood Fine Print 
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