Eighteen
Iam in the ultrasound room of my doctor’s office, and You are in a chair to my left, hands both around one of mine. With my other I keep my shirt tucked up into my bra, so it doesn’t get smeared with the ultrasound jelly.
The ultrasound technician, a woman named Lisa, has one hand on the wand, swiveling and sliding it all around my belly, angling it this way and that, tapping at the keyboard, sliding a ball that I think acts as a kind of computer mouse. Taking measurements, Lisa says—we’ll get to the good stuff in a minute.
I peer at the TV screen opposite the bed/table I’m on, trying to decipher what I’m seeing. But it’s all a mystery, nothing but blobs and shadows and black and white, and sometimes ribbons of pulsating, shifting color.
You glance at me, brows drawn down in a pinched expression of concentration. Maybe you see something I don’t?
And then Lisa taps a key and the room is filled with a rushing, rhythmic sound. A heartbeat. But there’s an echo to it, or an overlap—thumpthump-THUMPTHUMP-thumpthump-THUMPTHUMP, a sound too fast to even be a fetal heartbeat.
“Is that echoing sound normal?” I ask.
“Let me just...” Lisa doesn’t finish the sentence, though, but rather shifts the wand around, does something to narrow and zoom the focus, and captures the heartbeat again.
Swivels, shifts, angles, utterly focused. But frowning, brow furrowed.
“Is there something wrong?” I ask.
“Not wrong, no. But I just want to verify what I think I’m seeing with another tech, okay? Just sit tight.” And then Lisa leaves, comes back a moment later with another woman whom she introduces as Megan, an ultrasonographer.
Megan introduces me to the less-than-wonderful experience of a vaginal ultrasound, doing much the same as Lisa did, only inside me. What fun.
And I’m worried, because Lisa isn’t telling me anything, and neither is Megan, and I’m starting to panic.
“Can you please tell me what’s going on?” I ask, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
You squeeze my hand, smile at me—it’s okay, You’re telling me, without needing words.
“Okay,” Megan says, zooming the perspective in, bringing up the strange, overlapping heartbeat, then holding the wand steady at a specific angle, so that within the black oval of my uterus there are two small white blobs visible. Megan points at the screen with an index finger. “So what we have here, Mom and Dad, is two babies.”
“What?” I sound as breathless as I truly am.
“You’re having twins.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
Megan laughs, not unkindly. “Yes, I’m sure. There’s no way to mistake it, not from this angle.” An index finger, stabbing the screen. “One, two. And yes, there areonlytwo.”
Twins.
Not just one unexpected child, buttwo.
We go home, and I think we are both in a daze. Once through the front door, I slump, stunned, to the couch.
It is overwhelming. How does one prepare for motherhood? I don’t remember my mother, aside from a few minor glimpses. I haven’t remembered anything else, and I don’t think I will. Nothing major, at least. I don’t remember my mother. I don’t remember my father. I don’t remember my childhood aside from a couple of insignificant memories. With no examples, how will I know whether I’m doing it right or wrong?
I am not worried about loving them; I already do, fiercely, wildly. I think of them, whisper their names, and I feel this virulent, surging wash of throat-constricting emotion, a willingness to do whatever it takes. I have read so many books on parenting, read a thousand blogs on the subject, browsed through countless online chat forums. I go to the park and watch mothers with their children. Try to picture myself, a baby on each hip. Try to imagine waking up at midnight or three in the morning to feed them. Try to imagine buckling a little life into a car seat.
The visions are easy.
But I imagine the reality is always different. No one can ever be ready for parenthood, I think. You can’t ever truly comprehend the truth of an entire life being solely dependent on you for survival, for guidance, for love.
Thinking about the lives inside me, more than anything, makes me miss my parents. Or, rather, the idea of knowing them. It is difficult to put into words, even for myself. I cannot miss them, because I remember very little of them. I miss... the idea of them. I wish I remembered them. I wish I had them around to ask for guidance and advice. I wish...
So many things.
Too many things.
