three is the magic number

I tested positive for the Down's Syndrome gene during my pregnancy. I'd submitted to the testing the day after we got back from two weeks in Central America (or otherwise known as how we came to fall in love with Belize) so I was jetlagged and didn't think much about it until I got a call from a genetics counselor. These cats are so serious. And the appointment was serious. Moderate risk of child being born with DS. Please get amnio.

Even though I've had my head up my ass since the second I got pregnant, I was coherent enough to know that the risks of miscarrying from an amnio are about the same as M having DS. And we'd seen her by now - her little fingers and toes and kidneys and perfect little spine. She was real to us, and real enough to know that if DS was our roll of the dice, so be it. Given my previous post, I might assume folks reading might think "ungrateful bitch. get an abortion if you don't want to have a kid". Strangely, I never considered it.

M makes her appearance. I'll save you the details because giving birth is a very common phenomenon. However, right after she was born they brought in a specialist who said "I am not entirely convinced she has Downs." Not "I am not entirely convinced she doesn't since that silly test said she might, and hell, she looks great, so let's just rule it out." Oh, and we won't have the results for 2-3 weeks.

2-3 weeks were spent analyzing her every expression and movement. To decide to a degree of analytical certainty if that particular instance warranted the "maybe she does....", or "think that facial expression looks like....?" We were very scientific about the whole thing, obviously.

I remember being in the kitchen when the phone rang. I recognized the hospital prefix on the caller ID. Negative. Hysterical laughter while hanging up on the genetic counselor. Screaming, crying, hugging while sobbing on our knees on the kitchen floor. We didn't know we had that much pent up till it all came running out that sunny fall afternoon.