And there was a point in time, in my early teens, where I wasn’t even sure I liked them, but mostly, it was just that I didn’t ever see myself as a mom. A wife, yes. Sure. A mother? Not so much.
And then something happened.
I met someone about a month before my 38th birthday, and decided/realized rather quickly, that if ever there was a guy to make me “take one for the team,” he was the guy. He didn’t have any children himself, and at 40, he’d figured if it hadn’t happened by now, it probably wasn’t going to.
Then along came me. And after some months of dating, and some discussion, we came to the agreement that we’d like to make something happen.
But first, an appointment with my doctor, who gave us the go-ahead, and warned that it might take us a few tries to conceive unsuccessfully before “intervention” was required — normal for a woman “my age.”
That was her advice in April. I was pregnant by June.
It was expected, but unexpected. My partner and I were thrown quickly into the maelstrom of impending parenthood: monthly/bi-weekly/weekly doctor’s appointments, ultrasounds, blood and urine tests. (Thank God for the Canadian health care system.)
On Friday, September 13, 2013, I learned that our baby tested positive for 4 out of 5 markers for Trisomy 21 – the genetic mutation responsible for Down Syndrome. This meant that there was an 80% chance that my child would be a Special Needs child. A week later, after meeting with a couple of geneticists, and one amniocentesis, the diagnosis and sex of our baby – a little girl – were confirmed.
At a final face-to-face meeting to discuss how to cope with our daughter’s condition moving forward – a meeting I have dubbed “the abortion sell,” my partner and I met with the lead doctor/geneticist and her assistant. The discussion started with an apology, as if our baby had died. We were then apprised of the options for termination (either D&C or induction. Really? WTF?)