The Twin Specialist

Friday 25th March

Your Dad's in Berlin so it's my first trip to the hospital by myself to see the twin specialist. I find my way through a rabbit warren of corridors to the Fetal Meds Unit. I felt fine until now, sitting here waiting with women with partners or their Mums all around me.

Eventually I am called through by a suave middle aged man in scrubs, my consultant. He skims through the history of the last few weeks before asking me to climb onto his bed without (hoorah) having to take my trousers off. He splurges the gooey jelly stuff all over my belly and prods me. He moves quickly through the examination checking off bits of you babies to the nurse like a dentist checks off teeth to a dental nurse. "A leg, another leg, two legs, a hand, two hands". He's moving so fast I see only fleeting glimpses of you from different angles.

There's a big plasma screen up on the wall so I lay back and watch these flicking images of you both. Both of you have flipped over, both facing upwards now. You, my little shy bean are not so shy any more, wiggling and jiggling about and your arm is going up and down to your face like you are toning up your drinking arm. I want to take the prod thing off him and just spend some moments looking at you.

You, my little Laurel are still causing some concern at a good 20% smaller than your sibling. He starts by saying that siblings can be different sizes and that this could just be a difference. He tells me I need to hold onto that information the most. Next he tells me that it is possible for eggs to be released and fertilised up to a week apart. This contradicts the consultant on Tuesday but he assures me he knows what he is talking about. Finally, and I know he is just about to start with the information I want to hear least but will most likely hold most he tells me the difference could be down to a congenital abnormality.

The next visit will be for OSCAR testing, (one stop clinical assessment of risk) which is a thorough test for downs syndrome, which will include looking at the nuchal fold. He starts talking to me about my options from there on in if the risk is high. I hold myself together and thank him for his time.

I sit in the waiting room and feel strangely sad and guilty for wanting so much for you not be high risk, for wanting you to be normal. I work in the field of disability and spend so much time reassuring parents that their child is just different, just as valuable. And yet here I am wishing with all my might for you to be normal.