Janette and I huddled in the doctor's office. We were at the beginning of thirty-seven weeks into our pregnancy, and this ultrasound had not gone well.

"She has stopped growing. We're not going to wait until the due date. We'll try to get you in tonight."

I was stunned. Janette and I left the doctor's office after asking a few, brief questions, drove home, and waited for the all-clear call: the one that said, yep, we have beds available. Come on in. Let's deliver your baby now.

In the doctor's office that day, we received Hannah's first diagnosis/label: "intrauterine growth retardation." Sometime, as early as the first trimester, Hannah's intrauterine growth had fallen beneath the typical curve; in the third trimester, her growth and development had ceased. We were going to bring her into the world early to give her an opportunity to live and to reduce the stress, showing in high blood pressure and other metrics, on Janette's body.

The call came early that evening. We drove back to the hospital. My parents were in town, so they helped take care of Gabriel. Janette went into prep, and I dressed in daddy scrubs, waiting in the hallway for the go-ahead to re-join Janette and her medical team in the operating room.

I stood in the florescent-bright, pale yellow hallway, waiting. Doctors and nurses strolled through, chatted, laughed, washed up at a nearby sink, and popped in and out of different doors like a stage farce. I had time to stop. Think. Catch my breath.

I could trace this pregnancy, our soon-to-be-child, via an ultrasound map. On discovering we were pregnant, Janette and I had hooked up with a local ob/gyn, signed up for gestational diabetes screening, and hunkered down for the long haul to a due date. We knew the routine; Janette's pregnancies were never simple.

Our first pregnancy, back in Washington state, ended at five-and-a-half weeks: a heart-wrenching descent from the elation of our first, positive pregnancy test. After waiting the required three months, we tried again. And succeeded again. The first pregnancy seemed like a warm-up exercise, reminding the womb to expect a longer-term tenant. This second pregnancy stuck and produced Gabriel. It also kicked off a new routine for Janette's body: gestational diabetes.

Given that experience, when we found we were pregnant this third time, we covered all the known bases. We went back on a diabetic diet. Janette tested glucose levels regularly. As soon as feasible, we talked to a genetic counselor at OHSU and had our first ultrasound there.

Either at that ultrasound or one soon after, the technician took some measurements and checked them multiple times.

"Do you want to know the gender?" she asked.

I already knew. We Bachs produced boys - always boys since 1896.

"She's a girl."

So that was the HUGE surprise from the first ultrasound. I was elated. Later, the doctor added her observation. "We wanted to let you know that there may be a problem with her right foot. It may be twisted or hyper-extended. We need to let you know in case you want to..."

Janette and I snorted together. "Over a foot?"

"Well, we need to let you know. Some parents want to make sure they are having a perfectly healthy baby."

Again, in unison, Janette and I stared at her bemused.

In the second trimester, Janette had to move to taking insulin in addition to controlling her diet for the gestational diabetes. The "morning" sickness continued to press her throughout the day and throughout the months. Originally, I wanted four kids, equal to my own family. Janette, increasingly, was stressing that two was a much better number.

The ultrasounds continued. The sessions and period-of-review for each lengthened. Measurements started to not add up.

We insisted we knew the conception date (e.g. with a usually co-sleeping toddler, we could pretty much pin that date down). The doctors, ever the experts, provided an alternative, ultrasound-driven date. We disagreed. Bone measurement ratios between different parts of the body didn't line up, but the margin for error in ultrasounds closed that gap some.

At the same time, chemical tests were coming back with reassuring results. Primarily, I was looking for spina bifida, given my family history, and no detectable, chromosomal conditions were found. If a diagnosis had been suggested by tests, I think we would have proceeded anyway. Ever The Scheduler/Self-Appointed Person-In-Charge, I just wanted to know and "be prepared" with any available information.

This last ultrasound sound, though, had confirmed the growing, nagging suspicions that this pregnancy, too, was going to be uniquely difficult. Worse, my wife and our baby's health were in danger.

Janette's ob/gyn poked her head out of the door closest to me. "We're ready. You can come in now."

And I stepped into the operating room, holding my breath, waiting to hear my daughter's first cry.



To be continued....