Some of you may know that not long after Christmas, it was recommended to Heather and I that we have an amniocentesis. Patrick's (of course we didn't know his name then, or even that he was a "he") antenatal screen had "flagged". I rationalized that away easily enough because screening tests are just that, for screening and have low specificity; many go on to be negative on formal diagnostic testing.
The amnio went fine, but 2 days later we were called by the genetic counselor and told, though they weren't sure, there was a possible abnormal chromosome result. They said they would have to repeat the test, and they didn't know what to make of it yet but it was "suspicious".
What followed were some long and dark nights as we came to grips with what this might mean, if indeed anything at all, and waited for the lab to run the chromosomal tests again. We contemplated the prospect of having to say goodbye.
Eventually, thankfully, things turned out OK, and we now have something so precious that it still takes my breath away. At Christmas, only 2 weeks or so before all of this occurred, we had given Heather's mother Jocelyn the first ultrasound pictures. She gave me a poem after seeing this fuzzy black and white image, and I kept it and read it over to myself again later when we were waiting to hear the news, to soothe the fear and the shock, and I thought I would share it with you...
Tadpole, it’s not time yet to nag you
about college (though I have some thoughts
on that), baseball (ditto), or abstract
principles. Enjoy your delicious,
soupy womb-warmth, do some rolls and saults
(it’ll be too crowded soon), delight in your early
dreams — which no one will attempt to analyze.
For now: may your toes blossom, your fingers
lengthen, your sexual organs grow (too soon
to tell which yet) sensitive, your teeth
form their buds in their forming jawbone, your already
booming heart expand (literally
now, metaphorically later); O your spine,
eyebrows, nape, knees, fibulae,
lungs, lips… But your soul,
dear child: I don’t see it here, when
does that come in, whence? Perhaps God,
and your mother, and even I — we’ll all contribute
and you’ll learn yourself to coax it
from wherever: your soul, which holds your bones
together and lets you live
on earth. — Fingerling, sidecar, nubbin,
I’m waiting, it’s me, Dad,
I’m out here. You already know
where Mom is. I’ll see you more directly
upon arrival. You’ll recognize
me — I’ll be the tall-seeming, delighted
blond guy, and I’ll have
your nose.
from "The Drowned River" by Thomas Lux
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