COMMENTARY: Treading Water

Outside, the sky is slate gray — like old metal.

The rain falls steady; a liquid, translucent curtain distorting the world I see through the window.

It’s 9 a.m. I’m sitting inside a creamy yellow waiting room with my wife and our 8-year-old son.

The nurse enters and seats herself at a computer console. Large flat screen monitors surround me. I feel like I’m at NASA.

My wife is lying prone next to the machine.

The nurse takes a probe, slathers conductive jelly on it, and pushes it against Karen’s large, round belly.

We’re here to see images of the newest member of the Carter family. He’s currently under construction deep inside my wife’s womb.

The flat screen monitor at the end of the rooms flicks on and suddenly the screen is filled with grainy, black and white images — they remind me of those radar screens used in submarine movies.

There, I see my child.

He’s (for right now its a “he”) is in his fourth month. The images show his profile, his tiny feet, hands and his face.

I watch him hiccup; then suck his thumb.

Outside the rain falls.

Karen smiles. She places her had on the side of her belly as we see more images of this, our fourth child.

Clay shuffles his feet, he wants to know if its a boy or a girl.

The nurse stops.

She’s trying to get an image of the baby’s heart. She mutters to herself and then asks Karen to turn.

Again, the images on the screen changes. I see a heart. I see beating. The nurse frowns. “I need to get the doctor,” she says.

She leaves the room.

Karen looks at me, her smile fades.

About 10 minutes later, the doctor comes in and seats himself at the ultrasound machine. Again the probe is pushed against Karen’s skin. Again, the images appear on the screen.

“Ahhh…” he pauses.

“There’s…” another unfinished sentence.

Finally, he speaks. “There’s a defect in the heart,” he says. “It’s not…”

The room begins to spin.

I watch my wife’s beautiful face twist in agony. Tears cascade down her soft cheeks like small rivers.

The doctor continues to ramble, something about a protein string. Then, something about high risk. Something about the heart being on the wrong side.

I stopped listening at “heart defect.”

He mentions the possibility of terminating the pregnancy.

My guts twist. Terminating the pregnancy? I just watched my child suck his thumb.

Beside me, Karen sobs.

Clay lays his head against her chest.

The rain continues to fall.

At some point we stand. Karen wipes the blue jelly off her, like she’s trying to remove all traces of ultrasound. The doctors pushes a business card in my hand and tells me to call if we have questions.

We’re ushered out of the office, through a different exit. We don’t even stop to pay. I guess doctors don’t want their other patients to witness the results of pain and fear.

I feel the warmth of Karen’s hand as we walk toward the car. She’s silent. Clay walks in step with her. She cries again and tears mix with the rain on her soft face.

The drive home is surreal — no conversation. No discussion. Just an all encompassing feeling of dread and death.

The car’s windows reflect the light like melted glass, my world is distorted.

I know, now, what it feels like to drown.

At home, Karen lies on the bed and quietly weeps. She tells me she wants to find a rock and hide. She is overcome with fear and grief.

I touch her face and, for some strange reason, I feel guilty.

But God and small babies have plans of their own — agreements made by both that neither I, nor my wife, are privy to.

Karen drifts off to sleep, her face streaked with tears and mascara. I pull the comforter up over her. I go to work and try to focus on the world of journalism for just a few hours.

We talk several times that day via telephone. I can hear the anguish in her voice.

And still, it rains.

Wednesday we’re back, again, in the same office. This time Karen is focused, armed with questions. Inside her the baby moves. She feels him stretch.

We discover quickly just how much the doctor doesn’t know. There is some defect. In the heart. That’s about all he can tell us. But that’s enough to take our joy of a new child and shatter it into a millions of rain-soaked pieces.

The rest is unknown — for now.

There is some comfort: The doctor says the defect can be corrected with surgery.

He didn’t say that last time.

Heart surgery on a newborn. Karen touches her belly. The doctor leaves.

Privately, we both talk to God.

This time, we exit the “regular” exit. Karen writes a check, and for the first time in 48 hours, smiles.

She tells me things will be OK. She tells me she’s tired of being afraid. This time she holds back the tears welling in the corner of her large, brown eyes.

More rain — it feels warm.

I look toward the sky and ask God to look after my wife. The rain splashes on my shirt. Droplets cover my glasses. A tiny spot of blue sky appears.

Hope.

“Small babies and God have their own plans,” I think to myself.

That maybe so, but right now, at this very moment, we are simply treading water.