Investment Potential

There are a certain number of things that one must never say to a pregnant woman. Of course, amongst the most obvious are:

"Do you know how HUGE you are??"
"Can I touch your belly?"
"You're really starting to waddle now!!"
"You're still here? Shouldn't you have popped by now?"

Then, there are the less obvious things one must not say...or ways to say them.

As I've mentioned before, Adam and I have chosen to move our obstetrical care from the local hospital to a birth center in the area. So, I wasn't altogether surprised to get a phone call at work on Wednesday from a woman identifying herself as being from the hospital's OB/GYN practice. I figured she was calling to give me grief about making the transition. When I confirmed for her that I was indeed Lauren, she said, "Well, I'm calling because I have some test results...<pause>." Okay???? She continued, "But I noticed that you're switching over to the birth center..." Heart plummets past stomach, through feet, into ground.
Was there a problem? The only conditions I'd had my blood tested for were Sickle Cell Anemia, Spina Bifida and Down's Syndrome, ya know, the biggies. From her tone, it seemed as though she was concerned about my leaving hospital care because of the newly acquired test result. I dared to ask. "Was there cause for concern from the test result?" Realization sank into her head. "Oh, NOOO! I just thought that if you're not going to be treated here that it doesn't make sense for us to have your test results! I thought the birth center might want them!" Blood started to pump through my ice-cold veins once more. I managed to fumble out, "Oh! I..I thought you were suggesting that there was a problem and I needed to come in.." She laughed, "No, nothing like that. In fact, the test was fine, I just wanted to make sure it was okay to fax it over to the birth center!"
I gave her the go ahead and quickly hung up the phone. My coworkers were within earshot, so I left the lab to walk downstairs, thinking the whole time how much I wanted to talk to Adam. He was in class, however, and would not have been able to answer. Mum. My mother was off that day and had encouraged me to give her a quick call at some point during the day to say hello. So I called and, after letting her know that everything was fine, I cried. I realized in those moments that I wasn't just crying because I had thought for a split second that the baby was sick, or because I was relieved that it wasn't; I was crying because I finally realized how much I actually cared. Up until this point, I'd convinced myself that I really wasn't very emotionally invested in the pregnancy, other than to make sure I'd done everything I could to do right by the fetus. I'd even gone so far as to tell Adam that if something bad happened, I'd be a little sad but not devastated. "After all," I'd told him, "it's not like we were trying to have a baby." He was pretty shocked when I'd uttered that sentiment, but in my mind I was just being pragmatic, keeping it all in perspective. Things go wrong sometimes, and we need to be prepared for that. I guess I was trying to armour myself against grief and disappointment by feigning nonchalance when it came to the baby.
Wednesday's call changed all that. My mother calmly said, "People in those positions really need to have a little more thought to how they deliver news; I can see why you're so upset." She was right, the woman had been a bit thoughtless; but that's not the reason I was so upset. I was upset because I finally realized that I'd had my first maternal moment--a sincere and real fear for my child's health and safety, and it was overwhelming. Even now, it's a little off-putting to know that I've finally made an emotional investment. Adam sympathized with my story when I told him later that night, but said, "I wouldn't have expected anything different from you, Lady. You always see the dark before the light." I am a half-empty kind of gal, I'll admit. But it really wasn't beyond the realm of sanity to think I was about to get bad news. However, I'm choosing to take this moment and cherish it, because one day I'll be able to tell my kid the very first time I knew I loved it--the very moment I thought I was going to lose it.