While pregnant, I was introduced to silences. Long before, a friend had written me a poem with one significant line: Don't forget that silence is a sound, too. At the time, I used her words as my catch-phrase, but they held no meaning. My pregnancy taught me all about the sounds silence makes, and the weight it carries.
Due to immediate complications, my pregnancy was considered high-risk from day one. Nothing natural existed about my pregnancy: it existed within the terms of the doctors' mysterious script. I often joked my child was a series of test results and blurry images. Despite my large belly and the constant kicking within, I strongly doubted my baby existed outside the doctors' offices.
These past three weeks reaffirmed my belief that my child only exists via medical technology. Utilizing early detection techniques, ultrasounds were conducted in an effort to see my baby's heart. As of yet, he only shows us his penis and spine. He refuses to turn so we can see his heart. I have spent these three weeks pacing, walking, or jogging up and down the hall. I have jumped up and down, sung songs to my belly, and kept ice on it. Yesterday, the best idea was tried. I got to have caffeine--lots of it. He was more active, keeping me up all night, but still would not turn over.
Today, my baby continues hiccupping, making a good image nearly impossible. Instead of the usual laughter from the technician, silence greets me. She glances at me, glances at the monitor, and pages the resident. The resident repeats the performance, silently paging a doctor. The three of them examine the monitor, exchange silent conversations, and quickly glance at me before returning their eyes to the monitor. "He has the hiccups," each states, attempting to smile.
"I know," I say. "Is there something wrong?"
Silence.
I stare at the monitor, attempting to understand their serious expressions. The first ultrasound was nearly four months ago. At the time, all I saw were gray and black lines. When the technician outlined my son's skull, I was convinced my baby was an alien. I have since learned to see my baby within those lines. No longer does an alien stare out at me from the screen. Right now, he has his spine towards my own. I glance up and down his healthy spine, watching the white line of bone snake up his back. The spine can clearly be traced through an ultrasound, making it the first determinator of health. The heart is second. "His spine was fine, and his heart is, too," I softly try to reassure myself. Continuing my survey, I admire his pudgy legs. His feet are aimed towards the probe, and I can see the outline of each toe. With each hiccup, his hands grab his nose. In between his hiccups, his arms move about, seemingly waving at us.
"Look, he's waving!" I joke. The technician smiles, weakly, at me. The resident and doctor remain silent.
I stare more intensely at the monitor, focusing on his heart. Tha-thump, tha-thump. The monitor amplifies his heartbeat, allowing its sound to fill the room. I clearly see it moving, beating, pulsing. I can see the blood flowing through his hiccuping body. How can I be worried? Obviously he is healthy. "Everything is okay, right? We're just not getting a good view, right? Right?"
Silence.
Their silence tells me more than words could. I know something is seriously wrong with his heart. Without being told, I know the heart on the monitor is no longer healthy. I can almost see the missing half. I know this is only the beginning of ultrasounds and exams. I realize these three weeks of pacing, walking, and jogging in the hospital halls have only been practice for what is to come. I can almost hear the surgeon telling me about the operations and listing dismal statistics. I understand this pregnancy has everything to do with defying odds. I watch my hiccuping boy, and wait for the silence to break.
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