July 9, 2020
I hadn’t slept at all the night before my appointment with St-Justine hospital. The full day appointments began at 7am, until the end of day. My husband dropped me off at the main entrance of the hospital while he parked the car. There was a line up to get in, as security had to question us because of Covid. I was so consumed with my pregnancy that I almost forgot the rest of the world was fighting a pandemic.
“Have you been sick in the past 14 days, or around someone who has been sick?” the
security guard asked.
I shook my head.
“Have you traveled outside the country in the last 14 days”?
“Nope”, I replied behind my mask.
If you only knew how upside down my world has been the last 14 days, I thought.
I made my way past security and through the hospital to the gynecology department, where only one other couple in the waiting room. A nurse approached me, asked for my identification, and directed me back to the waiting room. My husband finally met up with me, and soon after, the nurse called us into the ultrasound room.
Our first appointment: The Ultrasound Technician.
The first appointment would determine the course for the rest of the day. If the ultrasound showed the same results as Eco Medic did, then we knew what the inevitable outcome would be. This ultrasound test, unlike the one done at Eco Medic, was more extensive and precise. I immediately laid on the bed, pulled up my shirt, tucked down my pants, and waited for the technician to smear me with the cold gel. As the technician examined me, I was reminded of the last ultrasound results, hoping they would not repeat the same ones. My husband sat on a nearby chair, on the opposite side the technician, and tightly held my hand. I held my breath examining her facial expressions for any clue as to what she saw. After a few moments she soon confirmed:
“There’s no amniotic fluid surrounding your baby, which suggests undeveloped
kidneys."
I exhaled and sunk into the bed. When you hear the same bad news for the third time, it loses its suspense and doesn’t sound as shocking. Any hope my husband and I had held on to was officially nonexistent. My body language suggested surrender. Acceptance began to make its way and settle with us, and at that moment, I felt I needed to know the gender. What was I losing? I asked the technician if she could see if it was a boy or girl.
“It’s hard to tell because of the baby's position, but I’d say I’m about 80% sure it is a
boy.”
“I knew it!” I replied, with a half-smiling, half-sad look on my face.
As we were led back to the waiting room, I pulled out a notebook and pen (I always come prepared), and started writing down questions I had for our next appointment. First, we met with the head nurse and she told us what we'd be expecting for the rest of the day, as well as what our options were for the future.
Our second appointment: The Geneticist.
We waited a lot longer for the next specialist to call us. This appointment felt more like an interview. The geneticist sat down behind his desk and asked us questions about our family history. The questions concerned finding out if any close relative had a past complicated pregnancy or prenatal developmental issue. Neither of us had any in our family that we could think of. The purpose of this appointment was to get as much information as possible to find out if this may have been something that was passed down genetically. He had broken it down to three possibilities for us:
“This could be due to a genetic mutation, chromosome defect, or simply a random
unexplained cause”, the geneticist explained.
We wouldn’t know for sure until a biopsy was done once the baby was born. It felt reassuring to know there would have been an explanation, but I knew the loss would still be a painful one.
We took a long lunch, since our next appointment would be much later that afternoon with the radiologist. We were hoping for some better news this time, perhaps a solution we didn’t know about yet. A mother never gives up hope.
Our third appointment: The Radiologist.
As we sat in a meeting boardroom, the doctor sat across from us and recapped our day to make sure we understood all the information that was given to us so far. He began to give us a couple of options on what was medically possible for us going forward, the first being the least desirable option; termination of pregnancy. I didn’t want to think about that but I knew it would likely be the road we were going to take.
Once we discussed the less desirable option, I began asking about something I had previously researched: Amnioinfusion. A method in which isotonic fluid is instilled into the uterine cavity. In other words, directly injecting amniotic fluid into the amniotic sac. I was hoping that this method could help replace the missing fluid surrounding the baby, which in turn would allow his organs to properly develop. I was waiting for this very appointment to get the doctor’s opinion.
“I don't think amnioinfusion will help because you are past the gestation period
where this method becomes effective for the baby's development”, the radiologist
began explaining.
“You’d have to do the infusion weekly until the end of your term, and even then, it will
not guarantee your baby’s organs will fully develop. If his kidneys don’t develop, he will
be on dialysis for the first year or so of his life. It is an ugly reality for a newborn, and
they often don’t make it.”
I was focusing on writing everything he was explaining in my notebook, not trusting my memory to remember everything that was said.
“But if we tried this what are the chances it could work and he’d have a healthy life?” I
asked.
“Slim to none”, he answered. “There is one case in the U.S. that I had heard survived
this procedure, but their situation was much less complicated than yours” he replied.
My face must have looked disappointed because he immediately began consoling me.
“We really would do whatever we could if it made sense; I’m in this field because I love
children. Trust me. That would not be a life for a baby to suffer that way”.
“I know”, I said, while looking at the floor holding back my tears.
Our fourth appointment: The Specialist.
The specialist, a doctor renowned for complicated pregnancies, called us into his office.
“This is such a rare thing to have happened to your baby, 1 in 3000 pregnancies”, he
began explaining as we sat down.
I had remembered reading that statistic online. It was good to know I had done my research well, although the level of disappointment of knowing we were that unlucky was overwhelming.
I had asked again about amnioinfusion, looking for a different answer than what the radiologist had given me prior, but unfortunately, he confirmed the same answer. The doctor asked us if we had made a decision on how to handle the pregnancy; I could continue carrying the baby to term and lose him at delivery, or end the pregnancy early and save him some inevitable suffering. In my heart, I knew what the right thing to do was, but I had to make sure.
“If this had happened to your wife, and you had to make the same decision, would you
advise her to end the pregnancy?” I asked the doctor.
Without hesitancy, the doctor replied yes.
“I’ve seen what babies go through for those carried to term, and it’s not a life for a baby
to live”, he explained. “It’s just really sad,” he concluded.
I looked over at my husband, and with just a look, we knew what the other was thinking. We had come to a mutual decision about our baby.
“Okay, we’ll do what’s best for our baby.” I said with teary eyes.
“We’ll end the pregnancy”.
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