26 Weeks.

Last Tuesday, we met with the cardiologist, after what seemed like an eternity since we were referred at our last prenatal appointment. The 11 days between the time we were told the baby may have an irregular heartbeat and the appointment for the fetal echocardiogram, were the longest, most anxious-ridden days I have ever suffered. Every time the baby kicked, I feared that may be the last time — that perhaps that was the kick was some sort of last signal for help. But, everyday it kicked again (and again and again) and by the time our appointment finally came around I was confident that any baby with legs like Becks was perfectly healthy.

That is until we walked up to the door of the cardiologists and I was overwhelmed by every insecurity and fear I had about raising a child with a medical problem. A medical problem I was sure I had somehow caused.

After filling out some paperwork, we were escorted to a small room filled with ultrasound equipment, a TV equipped with several children’s movies, and lots of heart diagrams and illustrations tacked to the wall. A technician came in shortly after and introduced herself and asked me some questions about my medical background. She then asked if we knew the sex of the baby and proceeded to explain to us that she refers to all babies as HE so not think that she knows anything more than we do. She was then ready to begin the ultrasound.

The ultrasound lasted about 20 minutes. The technician focused exclusively on the heart, monitoring each valve as they opened and closed and the blood pumped in and out. We all watched intently for several minutes without any of us saying anything. And then the technician would turn up the volume on the machine and the room would be filled with the thunderous thump, thump, thump of our baby’s heartbeat.

Then just as soon as she started she was finished and said she needed to meet with the doctor to discuss her findings. She left us in the room, alone — the ultrasound machine screen blank — and I began wiping off the ultrasound goo from my belly. The room was silent with tension. And then Bubba and I began recounting what we saw on the ultrasound, questioning if either of us saw or heard anything abnormal. Was that a good or a bad “ah” the technician let out? Did you see four chambers in that heart or was there only three? Did you hear any irregularities in the heartbeat?

Approximately 34,021 hours later, the technician returned to tell that us the doctor was ready to meet with us. We picked up our things and moved to another room and waited for the doctor. The room was small and sterile, and reminded me of the rooms families are gathered into to meet with the doctor who tells them their loved one is going to die. The doctor was a middle-aged woman who immediately told us that her daughter was also a redhead with my name and she too was pregnant. She made me feel at ease and comfortable right away. She then promptly explained to us, while drawing on a notepad with the preprinted illustration of a heart, that she did not see any anatomical problems and that irregular heartbeats are common in utero for countless unexplained reasons. The doctor continued to explain to us, just like our OB/GYN had mentioned the day she referred us, that the irregular heartbeat could have been a result of my stress that week, my position on the table, the baby’s position in my stomach, the amount of caffeine I ingested that day, the baby’s disposition that day, the doctor’s inadequacies, and on and on and on.

Basically we will never know exactly why the baby’s heartbeat dropped that day, but what we do know now is that we have created a perfectly developed heart that functions and beats just like it is suppose to. My heart is perfect now too.