I haven’t seen the baby yet or heard the heartbeat, since the screen has remained pointed toward the technician throughout. We’ve been making polite, infrequent conversation, but this ultrasound has been far more clinical than our last. It definitely feels as if the baby is the patient this time around, and I’m more of a walking incubator. It’s an unnerving feeling, honestly.
I’m twiddling my thumbs, looking up at the square-tiled ceiling, when I hear the curtain at the front of the room rustle as it’s pushed aside.
Bo comically towers over the technician as they walk in.
“All right, Dad, you can take that stool there,” she says, pointing next to the right side of my bed as she walks around the left.
Bo nods his thanks, lowering onto the stool.
“All okay?” he asks with a stiff smile.
“I think so,” I whisper. “I’ve just been lying here while she did her thing. She hasn’t said anything.”
Bo nods, rubbing his lips together anxiously.
“Hey,” I say, capturing his attention. “It’s okay,” I reassure him, smiling. “I’m sure everything is fine.”
“That’s supposed to be my line,” he says with a weak, crooked grin.
“All right,” the tech says, rotating the screen toward us. “Here we go.” She picks up her probe, untangles the wire from around her desk, and places it back on my swollen belly, pressing against the cool gel. With a click of a button, the baby is immediately projected onto the screen. A near perfect silhouette, just as you’d expect. Not a bean or alien-shaped thing anymore, but a full, tiny person with a disproportionately large head.
And I swear that nothing has ever been more beautiful.
I press my cheek into the bed, trying to not block Bo’s view. “There they are,” Bo says, breathing out a sigh of relief. I reach out to him blindly, refusing to take my eyes off the screen, and he wraps my smaller hand with both of his.
“Did you want to know the sex today?”
“No, we want to be surprised,” Bo answers for us both.
She nods, moving the probe again. “Baby has everything we’d like to see at this stage,” the tech says, pointing to the screen. “Spine is looking great.” She twists her wrist at an angle and clicks a button, and then suddenly, we’re looking at every intricate detail of a spinal cord.
It’s honestly kind of gross.
With every button pressed and movement of the probe, we’re shown each of the baby’s organs. Bo asks some questions, but I fail to fully focus my attention on them, enraptured by every little movement on the screen.
I doubt I’ll ever be fully able to conceptualise that this is all happeninginsidemy body, butdamndoes it make me feel powerful to even consider it.
The camera zooms back out and onto the baby’s face, a white silhouette against a dark background.
“Baby is showing off and sucking their thumb,” the tech says, pointing to the screen. “It’s so cute when they do that,” she coos.
I unconsciously sit up, leaning closer to the screen. The pillow that had been supporting my shoulders falls out of place and onto the ground. Bo lets go of my hand to pick it up before placing it next to me on the mattress.
“You okay?” he asks, resting his hand on my knee.
“I can’t see… I can’t make out the shape of their hand.”
“Ms. McNulty?” the tech says, her eyes held on me. She removes the probe and places it in its holster attached to the monitor.
I shake myself, lowering against the mattress. “Sorry…”
“Is everything okay?”
I feel a rolling of my stomach, like nausea but far worse. That anxiety spreads across my abdomen, tightening my chest and pooling at the base of my throat, making my next words come out like an apology. “Do they have fingers? On… on both hands?”
“Oh,” the tech says, her upbeat tone remarkably still intact. “Yes. All ten fingers and toes.” She types something into the computer before shutting it off. Then reaches for the chart on the side of her desk, tucking it under her arm.
I swallow an apology over and over, my face burning red.Why would I ask that?
