The First Worst Day

Will and I decided we were ready for a baby over a year before we started trying. We knew we wanted to be near my family, and since my parents surprised us with moving to Texas somewhat suddenly, we decided to try to return to Texas as well. I’m one of those obnoxious Texans who LOVES my state, and since Florida no longer seemed to be in the cards, Texas was the logical place to go. I grew up quite far from my extended family, and since they all seemed to be congregating in the Dallas area, the idea of having a child grow up near their cousins and grandparents was thrilling to me. In the time between our first baby talks and our permanent move to Dallas, I dreamed up all kinds of scenarios for our future child. Smart, they would have to be smart. Athletic? Maybe. Gymnastics or snow skiing, something different than your normal after school sports (I know…snow skiing in Texas. I didn’t say my scenarios were realistic). They’d be an Aggie, of course. But perhaps they would apply to some of the Ivy Leagues just to prove they could get accepted. A boy would grow up wearing sweaters and chelsea boots, like his dad. A girl would “borrow” my clothes when she was older, just like I do with my mom.

When we were settled in Dallas and finally ready, I got pregnant easily. We paid for the extra prenatal genetic testing because of a very rare disease that runs on one side of my family. I was pretty sure there was no way I (or my child) would inherit it, but better safe than sorry, right? Everything was perfect. The tests came back with completely normal results. My numbers were always great, I didn’t have gestational diabetes; I even joked about the baby being a perfectionist like me because any measurements I had done always hovered right around the 50^th percentile. In particular, the baby’s femurs were 53^rd percentile at our 20-week anatomy scan. Right on track.

We opted not to do another ultrasound because we weren’t finding out the sex, and everything was going so well, why bother? Well, the baby had other ideas. On February 3rd, I wasn’t greeted with my usual midmorning kicks. After a couple hours of trying various things (drinking ice water, drinking caffeine, eating a snack, etc.) I called my doctor and she sent me to the sonographer to be checked out. Our sonographer poked around for a LONG time trying to wake the baby up, and did some measurements while she was at it. She mentioned that he (at the time she didn’t say he, but we’re all aware Eli is a boy now) was short, but that’s all. We went down to Labor & Delivery to be monitored further and FINALLY he perked up and we went home, not thinking much of it. That was Thursday.

On Saturday, Will and I were up getting ready for our day-long prenatal class when my OB called. She said she looked at the sonographer’s measurements, and the baby’s legs were measuring pretty short, so on Monday she wanted me to call a perinatal clinic and make an appointment. She sounded very casual, so I said ok, still not overly concerned, and hung up. However, as the day went on and we sat in a room full of other pregnant women who all seemed to be blissfully happy and healthy, I started worrying more. I have suffered from major anxiety for years, particularly since Will’s mom died, and my anxiety medication wasn’t safe for me to take during pregnancy. So far it hadn’t been a problem, but that day I could feel myself starting to get worked up. I began googling “short femurs” (hint: don’t google. Never google.). I forced myself to wait until Monday morning to call my doctor back; I held my breath as I asked, “exactly how short are the femurs?” She replied, “less than 1^st percentile.” My ears started ringing and I forced myself to breathe. She was aware of my anxiety issues and immediately tried to reassure me. She told me it could have been a bad measurement, or maybe the baby was in a weird position, or he could just be short. I shouldn’t worry and I should definitely NOT research on the internet. Too late…