My chest tightens painfully. Because inevitably, I have to think about the other moment that changed my life forever. Those few minutes that threw me off course so much that I could only see one way out back then.
"But there's more," I whisper weakly.
It's time to tell him everything.
"It happened on the way to Lyon," I tell the story, mentally sitting in the train with Maxime, recounting how I answered the call from an unknown number and looked out into the barren landscapes.
I dive deep into the events of that day and share them with Maxime.
"Bonjour," I timidly say into the phone in my memory.
"Mademoiselle Olivetta. I apologize for calling so late," replies a woman's voice that sounds familiar.
It's the receptionist from my gynecologist's office. What does she want from me?
"Your test results have been available for weeks, and I forgot to inform you," she says.
What test results? "I'm afraid you have the wrong person," I reply hastily.
"No, your name is clearly here. It's about a sample taken at Hôpital de la Pitié-Salpêtrière after your miscarriage." Paper rustles in the background. "Okay," I say, stretching out the word.
She clears her throat. "Monsieur Guiot would like to discuss the results with you personally. Is next week suitable for you?"
Suddenly, it feels like I'm no longer sitting in the comfortably heated train but outside in the winter cold. "No. I want to know now," I respond reflexively.
"I can try to connect you." Is there pity in her voice? Or professionalism?
"Please." I press the fingernail of my pinky finger frantically against the tip of my thumb.
A playfully cheerful melody plays as I anxiously wait to hear Monsieur Guiot's voice.
"Do you have the test results?" I ask breathlessly after he greets me, pressing the phone closer to my ear.
For a moment, I hear nothing.
"Monsieur Guiot? Are you still there?" I slide my index finger under the collar of my sweater to pull it away from my neck, yet I still feel like I'm not getting enough air.
"Yes," he clears his throat. "I'm sorry to inform you that you are a carrier of Robertsonian translocation," my doctor says empathetically.
I sink deeper into my seat. "Rob... what?"
"A genetic abnormality, possibly inherited, possibly acquired." He pauses briefly as if expecting a reaction from me. "It was the reason for your miscarriage."
No. Dancing was the problem. I pushed myself too hard, didn't take good enough care of myself! "I don't understand... what...?"
"Your fetus suffered from Trisomy 22, and a miscarriage within the first twelve weeks of pregnancy was almost unavoidable," he explains slowly, but I still struggle to follow him.
Trisomy 22? I've never heard of that.
So our baby was sick. Because I have a genetic defect.
Genetic defect, genetic defect,it echoes through my head and that's when I realize what that means.
A cold shiver runs down my spine, and my throat tightens. "It will happen again, won't it?" I ask in a hushed tone, gripping the seat as if I could prevent the train from spinning around me.
"Well, the likelihood is high," he replies with a strained voice.
So we might never...? And if we do, we'll probably go through countless... Oh my God...
