This wasn’t supposed to happen.
The ultrasound tech, who started out chatting about her love of pottery sculpting and camper van travel, fell silent as her wand pressed firmly into my abdomen.
Click, she snapped a photo. Then another. I squinted at the grainy image of my 30-week-old fetus on the monitor. What was she so intent upon?
The cold jelly on my exposed skin itched. I shifted, fighting the urge to scratch. Most of my body was covered in a hive-like rash that felt like an army of fire ants attacking me. For the past few weeks, I’d slept two hours a night, soaking in baths of smelly Grandpa Tar soap at odd hours when the irritation became too much, and barely functioning through each day, draped in loose cotton clothing. I was suffering from two conditions — PUPPPs and cholestasis — both known to cause intense itching.
Now I was here at the Maternal Fetal Specialist (MFS) office for an appointment so they could prescribe a medication that might make it all go away. A “wham, bam, thank you ma’am” transaction in my mind.
Yet as the tech’s wand hovered over my pregnant belly, I sensed this appointment was no longer about me and the magic remedy.
“Is the baby OK?” I asked, my voice quivering.
“Just a little fluid,” she murmured.
I pressed her. “Is that a big deal?”
She offered a tight, forced smile and said those awful words every parent fears. “One minute, I’m going to get the doctor.”
Panic flashed through my mind. I stared at the empty monitor screen, and my heart pounded. How bad could it be? Shakily, I picked up my phone and called my husband.
“Can you please come? Something is wrong with the baby.”
We wanted answers, but only found more questions.
The tech returned with a kind, empathetic specialist. She shared the news that there was fluid buildup around the baby’s heart, stomach, skin, and liver, likely a condition called hydrops — but “please don’t Google that.”
“We can perform an amniocentesis,” she informed me, “to try and find the causation.”
“If it’s not a lot of fluid, it could go away on its own?” I blubbered.
“It could,” she answered sympathetically.
My body felt cursed. First, it had failed me, and now it was failing my sweet, innocent baby.
They performed the amniocentesis on a Thursday morning in triage because of the risk that it could send me into labor at 31 weeks. My husband nearly passed out at the needle, but what was a needle to me when my whole body was a concoction of irritation?
I spent that weekend in triage being monitored for high blood pressure, likely brought on by stress and exhaustion. The itch didn’t go away with the medication, so I stared at the ceiling through most nights, willing my body into a sleep that wouldn’t come.
Then the specialist called to say the amniocentesis hadn’t revealed the reason for the baby’s fluid levels, so they’d have to send us to a geneticist. At the geneticist’s office, we answered questions about our family histories… but doctors still couldn’t find a reason for this mysterious illness.
Oops, I Googled again.
I went for ultrasounds at the MFS office on a weekly basis. One day, we received some good news: There was no inflammation around the baby’s heart. My husband and I celebrated with sandwiches at a nearby lunch spot. We held hands, clinging to this newfound hope.
That evening, I dared to Google “hydrops.”
The words sucker punched me: Hydrops has a high perinatal mortality rate, with studies showing a 20-30% survival rate one year after birth.
Holed up in my bathroom, I wept. This was no longer a vague prognosis but a monster which had grown fangs, three heads, and sharp claws, threatening to rip open and shred my heart to pieces.
I confessed to my mom, husband, and a nurse friend what I’d done. They all wondered, Why had I Googled it? But, how could I not? The word was like an itch I couldn’t resist scratching.
We were no strangers to intensive care with newborns, having been stationed in the NICU/ICU with our prior babies when one was born early and the other became gravely ill with bacterial sepsis. Still, if this unborn baby of mine were as sick as what I read online, it would be our most harrowing NICU experience yet. But I promised myself I would not give in to despair because that was not today’s bridge to cross.
Instead, I dug into the tops of my feet until they were covered in open sores. It was winter, but I could only tolerate sandals, putting my sore-ridden feet on display.
Our prognosis changed — and so did our outlook on doom-Googling.
At my 36-week MFS visit, the lead specialist, whom I’d never met before, interpreted the readings from that day’s ultrasound. “The fluid is going down,” he said.
“What does that indicate?” I asked.
“Your baby likely has a virus. It’s what I thought from the beginning.”
“So my baby might not have hydrops?” I asked in a small voice, barely daring to believe.
“No,” he scoffed, “I always thought it was just a virus. I said that from the beginning.”
I’d never met this specialist before, and yet he’d never agreed about the prognosis? I felt relief settle over me like a salve.
On a late February morning, as the sun rose, I gave birth to a 6-pound, 12-ounce baby boy. Immediately, the itching subsided.
The nurse administered a little oxygen to my son, but assured me he was healthy.
Healthy.
Looking back, I wish I hadn’t Googled hydrops. Instead, I should have asked the specialist to explain the condition in relation to our situation. Also, I liked my specialist, but exploring a second opinion may have been beneficial to us as well.
Even if another doctor had offered the same prognosis, I know now that ultrasounds don’t always reveal the whole picture. Some research suggests two-stage screening (meaning you received two ultrasounds) can “correctly identify 1448 out of 1775 cases of structural anomalies (83.8%) with 118 false positives (.1%).”
Although .1% is a rather low number, and my case wasn’t a false positive because something truly was wrong, I empathize with those 118 families impacted by misinformation. And with the 83.8% whose lives will forever be changed.
If you’ve received difficult news at an ultrasound appointment, please know that I am reaching through time and space to hold you in my heart today. You’re more courageous than you think!
But do yourself a favor — don’t Google anything.
Kris Ann Valdez is an Arizona native, wife, and mother to three children, as well as an overzealous family dog. As a freelance journalist, her work appears in Business Insider, SUCCESS, Motherly, and Motherhood Mag, among others. You can follow her @krisannvaldezwrites.
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