Friends are over for toddler play time when the radiologist’s office calls. I need to go back in to redo images on my pregnancy ultrasound. A Doctor’s office calling to want repeat tests is a certain path to a nervous breakdown. “How soon can you get me in,” I reply.
I must wait until tomorrow. I try to stay calm as I tell my girlfriend what is happening. I don’t like the look of concern on her face. “Let’s don’t get worried until we know for sure there’s something to worry about,” I try to calm her when I really want to jump out of my own skin.
The next day I am prepped with warm goo and the technician takes measurements, clicking through her assigned pictures. “Wait right here. I’m going to get the radiologist.” This is not good. I am here alone. Why did I tell Dan to go to work? I need him.
The radiologist comes into the darkened room without uttering a greeting. He clicks through more measurements while I wait staring into space, fear ripening into dread. He gets up to leave and I say, “Wait. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
He puts on his best bedside manner and explains: they are trying to get a better picture of one of the baby’s brain’s ventricles. The measurements they get are too big.
“Does this mean my baby has hydrocephalus?”
“If that were the case, the measurements on the other side would be too large also. I think we have an instrumentation problem and don’t have an accurate reading. We’re going to send you to a perinatologist with better ultrasound machines.”
“So, don’t worry until someone tells me to worry.”
He smiles reluctantly. “Exactly. And I’m telling you not to worry.” He might as well have told me not to breath until I see the specialist.
In the week we wait for the perinatologist appointment, I do the only thing I can to relieve my anxious heart. Here is what my prayers sound like. “Okay, God. Here I am again. Your Son told this story about a woman trying to get justice from a mean judge, and she pestered him so much he gave her what she wanted to get her off his back. You are not an uncaring judge, but I promise you that every time I start to get anxious, I will ask you this, and you’ll probably get sick of it. First choice: Let there be nothing wrong with this baby’s brain. Let the radiologist be right that it is an instrument problem. Second choice: If there is a ventricle that’s too large, let it be fixable; let his brain heal. Third choice: If this child has handicaps, equip me to love and care for him and give him his best life. When I am on the answered side of this, just as often as I think about it in hindsight, I will give you thanks multiplied against the times I bothered you.”
The day of our appointment arrives and Dan and I are able to get through it calmly enough. We even joke with the doctor so that after the exam he explains. “Most of my patients come in racked with anxiety. How do you stay so calm?” I am not bold enough to share my prayer strategy with this stranger. I just cop out with the explanation that the radiologist said it was most likely an instrumentation issue, since only one side appeared enlarged. We decided not to worry until someone told us something to worry about. “Well, your baby’s brain is just fine. However, the radiologist was not quite right. One side can be enlarged without the other being affected.” I wish I were the type to freely share my deeply guarded prayer secrets. I leave the office regretting my partial truth-telling.
I make good on sending up thank-yous as often as the event comes to mind. The next twenty-six years are punctuated with them, multiplying over the times I was a pest.
“Thank you, God, for Brad’s brain.” See, I thought of it again just now.
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