Playful Rooted

On this day last year, at almost 24 weeks pregnant, I had a 3D ultrasound. One of those keepsake ones, you know? The totally unnecessary, expensive, “I would never get one of those done” ultrasounds. The reason?

I wanted to see my baby’s face while she was still alive.

I went by myself while Ben watched the boys. Normally keepsake ultrasounds must be happy events shared with the whole family – joy and laughter and the thrill of this little life inside, what he or she looks like and who he or she will be. This one wasn’t. It was the same ultrasound technician who had, a month prior, done my initial anatomy scan. The same person who had quietly rushed the results over to my midwife, both concerned and confident in what she had seen. So there was an understanding there. We didn’t talk about it. But she knew what this ultrasound was for. She made sure, without my asking, to get lots of video of the baby’s face. I didn’t cry; I marveled. My girl looked so beautiful in there. Tiny and perfect. How could things actually be so wrong?

It was a couple weeks before that, on March 19th, 2021 (I’ll never forget that date), that we had our first second-level anatomy scan with a respected specialist who had been in this field for 30 years. That was the day she told us that our darling girl had an extra chromosome, or that there was something missing, or that part of her DNA had been incorrectly assembled. That in addition to the chromosomal problem, she had multiple parts of her brain that were too big; one part of her brain that was completely missing; a two-vessel cord; a heart defect; enlarged kidneys; malformed fingers.

We walked out of that appointment certain that our child was going to die inside me. The doctor was so sure of herself and confident in her assessment. “Never in 30 years has this not been a chromosomal abnormality.” Never. And we trusted her. (That’s where Pria’s middle name came from – Kamea: The one and only. A title rooted in defiance.)

But our baby didn’t die. Her chromosomes are arranged just as they should be. She doesn’t have a heart defect. Her fingers are perfectly formed. That part of her brain wasn’t missing. I still can’t believe it sometimes.

In these recent months, I thought a lot about how I would feel on March 19th, 2022. A whole year since that day, the worst of my life up to now. After everything we’ve been through since then; this vicious, bright, unpredictable roller coaster ride. I thought I would feel victorious. It makes sense. We’ve overcome so many odds. We’ve defeated our biggest fears for this child. We’ve come out the other side. I anticipated feeling nothing but elation, charging forward with joy and gleefully leaving the past behind.

And yet, all I really felt on March 19th was sadness. Just so, so sad. Sad for every thought I was forced to think. Sad for the ocean of tears I cried, sad for all the sleepless nights wondering how I would live through this, sad for the grief our whole family felt. Sad for the hours spent agonizing over every ultrasound photo. Sad for the torrent of genetic testing we endured, and for all the waiting. And waiting. And uncertainty – up until the moment of her birth, and beyond. Sad for how it affected my mothering of the two sweetest boys in the world who deserved so much better from me. Sad for how I’ve changed, for surely I will never come close to being the person I was before all this. Sad for all the mothers who have gone to specialists with their precious children inside them, and who have heard the same words and felt the same hurts. And sad for the ones who haven’t gotten the brilliant, fascinating, unbelievable happy ending that I somehow was granted.

Sad for all the sadness.

I sporadically see a wonderful therapist, and every time I go in, she reminds me that it’s okay to feel “both, and” (meaning we don’t have to choose between “either, or”). Because the logical thing is to look at the incredible gift of my daughter’s life and just be in constant ecstatic, over-the-moon celebration. And I do feel that. I do. And I also feel really, deeply sad. Maybe I always will. And I’m okay with that.

I’m happy-sad.

Aren’t we all, for so many different reasons? And what is one without the other?

The beautiful face I saw a year ago:

And one year later, the beautiful face I thought I’d never see:

My heart is very full.

xo