The Third Scan

Monday 14th March

I can barely say my name to the receptionist at the Early Pregnancy Clinic before I crumple in tears. She steers me into a private waiting room. Nurses pop in and out asking me questions and then the Sonographer whisks me off into the now familiar room. I slide onto the pillow. I am shaking with fear which is making it hard for her to secure images.

After a few moments the Sonographer reassures me she can see two heart beats. She turns the screen to me Showman Bean you are bouncing and leaping off the sac wall, your little arms waving in the air. You look like a little child in a swimming pool. Then she moves the image over to Shy Bean, your heart is beating but you are so still, your sac looks kind of shabby in comparison.

Back in the private waiting room the nurse comes in to speak to me. They have taken my file "upstairs". Upstairs is this place I keep hearing about, it's a place where answers come from, you can earn your own place upstairs only by proving sufficiently complex. The consultant has said, the nurse tells me, that he is surprised you Shy Bean have survived this long, judging on the last scan he hadn't expected you to still be here. This is new information to be me and it's hard to hear retrospective bad news. They gave me all sorts of reassuring explanations last time, maybe you were conceived at different times, maybe it's a funny angle. Last time it was all very normal.

Now the nurse is in front of me saying she hasn't seen this before. It's the growth that concerns them and the shabby sac. They aren't talking about these explanations you are just a worry to them. I don't understand though. At the last scan you were 6 and a 1/2 weeks while your Showman sibling was 7 weeks. This time you are 8 1/2 while your Showman sibling is 9. Surely that consistent growth rate is a good thing.

She's reluctant to reassure me and I feel like she is trying to tell me something through anecdotal riddles. I leave knowing I should be happy you are both still alive but full of fear about whether you will survive. Your Dad has interpreted it all more positively. He is full of hope and certainty that you will be fine. I cling on to his hope like a barnacle to a rock face in a storm.