Self Reflection

Many years ago, and no I don't want to discuss how many, I took several psychology courses in college. At the time, I wanted to be a genetic counselor. I wanted to help pregnant couples know more about the child they were carrying and how their genetic traits would be passed on. This meant a lot of biology, physiology, anatomy, and psychology courses. Partway through, the truth of the job hit me like a ton of bricks. There would be times that the information I would have for the couples would not be pleasant. I would be the bearer of that unpleasant news and the choices I would be able to offer them would be insufficient. I lost my desire for that field and moved in other directions.

Regardless, I did learn a lot in those psychology courses. One required that we keep a journal, not that different from this blog. We needed to spend at least 15 minutes each day, just writing. It didn't matter what our topic was or whether we stayed on topic. All that mattered was that we write. We didn't share those notebooks with anyone in the class, nor did the professor ask to see what we had written. All she asked was that we carry the notebooks with us and write when we had the opportunity.

For a while, I let that dream wither in the back of my mind. After all, it was a dream I didn’t pursue. A dream that had spoiled before it was reached, but it didn’t go away. It just sat, dormant, waiting for a chance to resurface.

Many years later, during my first marriage, I was friends with one of my spouse’s co-worker’s wives. That is a typical event in the military. The “members” make their friends among their co-workers, and the spouses are left to make friends, or not, from among themselves. This particular woman and I got along quite well. Her daughter was only a few months older than my son was. We got together on the weekend, when the men were gone, and let the children play. We met at the mall and wandered around to get our exercise. We planned Tupperware parties.

One day, she called me with the news that she was expecting. I was thrilled for her. I knew that she wanted a larger family because she had been an only child. A few weeks later, I found out that I was also expecting. We shared notes from our doctor’s appointments and shopped for maternity clothes together. It was an exciting time, until the day of her ultrasound.

She came over right from the doctor (because I was watching her other child), and showed me the pictures. I looked at them as she raved about the hands and feet and how the baby kicked during the exam. I looked more closely because I thought I saw something that didn’t appear right. I asked her what the doctor had said about the baby. She didn’t realize that there was concern in my voice. She prattled on about the length of the baby and the estimate of its weight. I decided not to mention my concerns. After all, I was not a sonogram technician.

Three weeks later, I had my ultrasound. I scrutinized the screen and even asked the tech about what I thought I had seen on my friend’s picture. She said that if I saw what I thought I saw, it sounded like polydactylism (multiple digits on the hands or feet.) I also mentioned that the kidneys didn’t appear similar to my baby’s. The tech suggested that there might be something genetically wrong with the other baby. I didn’t say another word. I was to watch her daughter the following day because she was going back for another ultrasound. I decided to bide my time.

The following afternoon, when I answered the door, I knew that I had been right. Her eyes were puffy and red. She didn’t say a word; she just walked in and sat down on the sofa. I got us each a glass of ice water and then I took her hand and waited for her to speak.

She took out the pictures, both from that afternoon and the previous appointment. She handed them to me and told me that they thought the baby had a genetic defect. She told me a little about it and I listened. Then, she stopped, hung her head, and wept.

I pulled her to me and told her that I had studied genetics in college and that I knew about Patau syndrome. At first, she didn’t do anything. Then she pulled back a bit, wiped her eyes, and asked what I knew. I got up and retrieved my old genetics books and we flipped through until I found it. I explained more than the doctor had told her. I gave her the odds of successfully finishing the pregnancy. I told her the odds were against the child making her fifth birthday. I told her that I would stand with her through it unless my pregnancy would make her uncomfortable because it suddenly dawned on me that every time she saw me, it would remind her that the baby growing inside her wasn’t perfect.

I went to their house every day from the day she was released from the hospital. I watched her daughters so my friend could shower. I went with her to the mall where we would walk, and browse, and get our exercise. I hugged her when strangers pulled away at the unusualness of her baby’s appearance. I took her older daughter into my home the week they planned the funeral. My doctor didn’t let me attend the funeral though. He felt I was too close to delivery to be that far from the hospital.

Several months later, she called to tell me she was expecting again and she asked if she could come over. I made some tea and waited for her. Her daughter and my son got out blocks and began to build a city, my little one slept nearby in her bassinet. “What is the chance that this baby will have it too?” she asked, tears forming in her eyes. Very little chance, thankfully, it isn’t genetic in that it is passed from parent to child. It is genetic in that the genes are malformed in division. I could see the relief in her eyes for a second, and then they darkened. While I knew the chances were 1 in 3000 that seemed too high a probability to her. I recommended that she see an obstetrician who specialized in high-risk pregnancies and see if he/she thought that testing would be appropriate. She ended up having an amnio and the baby was just fine. No trace of genetic abnormality, he would be a fine son.

Since then, both our families have moved more than once, and I have lost track of them. I wonder sometimes how they are. My dream to be a genetic counselor didn’t turn out the way I thought it would, but I guess that it was fulfilled. I was able to counsel my friend when most of her friends turned away. I was able to help her and her family through a rough time in their lives. I was also able to see how lucky I really was. My daughter was healthy. I never took that for granted again.