We have decided to try for another baby. Some might say this was a brave decision. I’m sure others would call it reckless, selfish, … crazy. It surprised me, actually. I thought we would continue to skirt around the issue until it was too late. Or, I thought we would play it safe. I thought one of us, at least, was naturally risk averse, and the other wouldn’t push them. Turns out, on matters of life and death, we are both gamblers.
We agreed that the benefits a ‘normal’ third child would bring to our family, and particularly our existing children, were so great as to make it worth the risk, the one-in-four risk, that that child will not be ‘normal.’ We did our research: we know that with no genetic diagnosis there will be no early way to test. We know that in all likelihood it will be 32 weeks before any abnormalities can be detected. We know that it might be 38 weeks before we can be even fairly certain if the baby does not have the same condition as Benjamin.
And now here I am, carrying that baby, for as long as it takes and hopefully longer.
It can be lonely, being pregnant. Those first twelve weeks when it’s just your little secret aren’t so much fun the third time around. You’re too tired to go out for coffee (you shouldn’t be drinking coffee anyway) and you’re in bed by 9pm, so the majority of your conversations are limited to a non-verbal baby and a three-year old who doesn’t understand why you’ve always got your head down toilet.
And if the whole pregnancy is to be overshadowed by fear, fear of that looming one-in-four chance, what then? You don’t like to talk to your family, to get their hopes up over a baby that may never be. You hide away from your friends – the fewer people see your growing bump, the fewer people you will have to explain to if that bump disappears before its time. You feel guilty among the wonderful online community of other mums of undiagnosed children, because you know many of them have faced the same fears and made the equally brave decision not to have another child; the last thing you want to do is reopen their old wounds.
I am blessed to have a fantastic, caring husband with whom I can share everything and be totally honest, and who is with me one hundred percent in this gamble. I am grateful to have a supportive obstetrician. I know that she knew that we would take the risk: her parting words at our pre-conception meeting were, “I’ll see you back here when you are pregnant.” I am also fortunate to have been able to talk to the rector of my local church. It is a great comfort to know his thoughts and prayers are with me. And now, I am pleased to be sharing our hopeful (I dare not say joyous) news with you. I would love to have your thoughts and prayers too.