Ordinary Day

Twelve years ago my alarm went off at 6 a.m. I got up, brushed my teeth and threw up. I had done this hundreds of other mornings, it felt ordinary. I showered, dressed, got the kids up. I fed them breakfast and drove them to school. Ordinary. I drove to my 9 o'clock doctor appointment. The first appointment of the day – very important so as to not be late for pre-K pick up at eleven.

Kathy, my Ob/Gyn nurse of ten plus years, called me back. I peed in a cup. We chatted about our kids and the weather. Ordinary. She weighed me, took my blood pressure and asked if the spotting had returned. A routine we’d repeated for the last fifteen weeks; so familiar, ordinary. I lay on the table and Kathy measured me, then she pressed the Doppler to my belly. Nothing. "Ornery" she said, "hiding this week". She went to get Dr. B, see if SHE couldn’t get the kid to pipe up. Dr. B came in. Moved the Doppler here, there, everywhere. Still nothing.

"Placenta must be in the way" Dr. B said. "The tech is not in this morning, but let’s go do an ultrasound" she said. Ultrasound? We'd done this dozens of times. We laughed; "Thank God we’re past the transvaginal stage" we said. We talked about summer vacation and how far I might, or might not, be able to travel. New room, new table, cold gel, transducer. We’re looking at the screen. He looks so big! Oh my God, I can see fingers...

Wait. I can’t breathe. All the air has been sucked out of the room. The only light is emanating from the screen. Nothing is moving. This isn’t right. I’ve seen dozens of sonograms. There should be movement. His heart should be ...

We can’t look at each other; only the screen. We don’t speak. But we know.