The early stages of my pregnancy with Zoe remain a whirlwind of emotions and experiences, now seen through a lens of three years. It feels like a tumultuous wave of events, crashing into one another with little clarity. This haze may stem from the circumstances surrounding my pregnancy or perhaps my cognitive processing, due to a brain injury I acquired at a young age. My memories often manifest in unique and sometimes fragmented ways.
One vivid memory is the day we had our first ultrasound. I was dressed in a black dress with pirate sleeves paired with flared yoga pants, a combination I held a fondness for. I remember wishing I had cherry red lipstick to complete my look, and the Earth moonboots I wore, which my partner, Alex, found unappealing. As we drove, I noticed a moss-green Nissan Cube, and I recall the weather being crisp and clear. At that moment, I was roughly ten weeks pregnant and 36 years old, having just experienced the heartache of a second-trimester miscarriage.
We were headed to a specialized clinic for high-risk pregnancies. In the dimly lit room, with the ultrasound machine illuminating our path forward, the technician applied the cool gel to my belly. When we saw our baby’s heartbeat flicker on the screen, a wave of relief washed over us. However, the technician’s silence and somber demeanor hinted that something was amiss. She left the room only to return with the same perinatologist who had previously delivered devastating news about our last pregnancy. My heart sank as he arrived, prompting me to exclaim, “But the baby is alive! I can see the heart beating!” He affirmed that while our baby was indeed alive, she faced significant challenges. The diagnosis was diffuse fetal hydrops, indicating that her skin was detached from her body, with fluid accumulating between the two. He grimly stated she had a “0%” chance of survival and recommended an amniocentesis to investigate the cause, not for her sake, but for potential future pregnancies.
With heavy hearts, we agreed and returned weeks later for the procedure.
The amniocentesis revealed an extra chromosome and confirmed we were having a girl. Miraculously, the hydrops had resolved itself. Despite being strongly advised to terminate the pregnancy due to the diagnosis of Down syndrome, we decided to continue. To be frank, it was Alex’s unwavering belief in the value of our daughter’s life that influenced our choice. He insisted we had to “play with the cards we are given.”
Reflecting on my own past, I grappled with the decision. Having grown up deaf and with a brain injury, I understood the trials faced by those with disabilities, including exclusion and mockery. I bore scars from my experiences, both physical and emotional. The statistics on abuse against individuals with disabilities haunted me; I knew the risks I was subjecting my daughter to. I questioned whether it was selfish to bring her into a world where she might face suffering. My desire for her existence was profound, yet I wrestled with the moral implications of our choice.
As I navigated the complexities of my pregnancy, I often regretted the amniocentesis, burdened by the knowledge of her diagnosis. Insomnia became my companion, as I relived moments of my past trauma and questioned if I had inadvertently condemned my daughter to a life of pain. In search of solace, I consumed personal blogs and memoirs, seeking understanding and reassurance about the unknowns of Down syndrome.
I envied those who received a birth diagnosis, as they were able to hold their newborns and process their grief. I, on the other hand, sought comfort from my growing belly, grappling with the darkness of my thoughts. Yet amidst this turmoil, a realization emerged: my daughter’s life is her own, separate from mine. She will forge her own path, with her disability shaping her experiences uniquely. As Khalil Gibran beautifully articulated:
“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.”
The grief that enveloped me during my pregnancy ultimately served a purpose, cleansing me of any preconceived notions and allowing pure joy to flourish in anticipation of her arrival. Zoe Eleanor. The light of our lives.
If you are interested in learning more about home insemination, check out this informative resource. Additionally, American Pregnancy provides excellent insights on pregnancy and donor insemination.
In conclusion, this journey has taught me the importance of embracing life’s uncertainties and cherishing the unique paths that our children will carve out for themselves.
Leave a Reply