Being Dad: Day -236
Listening for a heartbeat
Two weeks after an emphatic second pregnancy test came our first scan.
It was my 41st birthday and I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather be doing.
We drove around the corner to the medical imaging facility and went straight in. The superstitious part of me (a large portion) thought, this is all going a little too smoothly and my anxiety bubbled up.
The sonographer, a young woman with a warm and calming demeanour, congratulated us. Hers was the first we’d received. It felt nice.
While routinely squirting clear gel onto my partner’s abdomen, she warned us it was early to be getting a scan, and not to be alarmed if there wasn’t a heartbeat.
I instantly felt a wave of nerves. The realisation this might not be good news crashed over me. I sucked in as much air as I could, my only form of defence.
Then, mouth ajar and staring at the monitor, I saw our baby.
It was a 5mm light patch on an otherwise black screen, indistinguishable to my untrained eye. Still, I got a rush of emotion. It was a distantly familiar feeling I’d had exactly 30 years earlier.
It was my 11th birthday, which coincided with my aunt’s 21st party, so the crowd sang a rousing rendition of happy birthday to me. So touched by this gesture, I uncontrollably burst into tears.
This time, though, I held back the emotion. The blessing and curse of growing up, I guess.
I looked at my partner and we both beamed. Then a heartbeat. It sounded like a drum through a seashell.
I turned to the sonographer for confirmation.
That’s something I would learn about these scans, you become an amateur body language expert, trying to get a read on what their face is saying.
The pregnancy was viable, and our baby was doing great.
I don’t know what I got for my birthday in 1995, but I’ll always remember how that crowd made me feel. Thirty years on, I’ll never forget this room or feeling.