When you learn you’re having a baby girl, regardless of the misgiving you have about the day-to-day ups and downs in the pregnancy, your mind wanders to what the future might be like if it all works out. You get to have a baby girl, a daughter. You get to have tea parties and dance classes. You get to help pick out prom dresses and wedding dresses. You imagine grand babies. You have a dream for her, and for you and her. You have a dream for yourself as a mother and a mentor and a friend.
You have a dream your life would be so different from the one that you find yourself in when you get the call that your followup from genetics has been scheduled for months down the road and you’ll be seeing a different doctor and be followed by a different clinic.
In that life, the one you find yourself in, you freak the fuck out because followups and clinic switches must mean there are results and if there are results, then why the hell do you have to wait 2.5 months to hear them. And then you go all momma bear and ‘make some calls’ which can be loosely translated to “lose your shit” on a number of people.
At the end of these “calls” – which take place over 3 long days, you find there is suddenly an opening for Tuesday, 5 short days away, with the original doc you saw to discuss results, that are, as you suspected, in. And, after that gets arranged, you find your phone is ringing, again. This time it’s the doc himself, with apologies for the mix up and the offer to give you the results over the phone – something, he tells you, they don’t usually do – but given your level of stress over the situation, (ie – because you seem to be losing your shit), he is willing to do in this instance. Of course, you say “yes, thank you” and he asks if this is a good time and if you’re sitting down and you say “yes” and “yes” and then as he speaks, the dream you dreamed of your future, the dream of your charmed life with your charmed daughter (the dream you knew in your gut and your heart was a long shot but you chose to dream just the same) ends. It dies. And a little piece of your heart dies. And a piece of you, as a mother, dies right along with it.
Just like Fantine in Les Mis says, now life has killed the dream I dreamed.