And I swear that nothing has ever been more beautiful.
I press my cheek into the bed, trying to not block Bo’s view. “There they are,” Bo says, breathing out a sigh of relief. I reach out to him blindly, refusing to take my eyes off the screen, and he wraps my smaller hand with both of his.
“Did you want to know the sex today?”
“No, we want to be surprised,” Bo answers for us both.
She nods, moving the probe again. “Baby has everything we’d like to see at this stage,” the tech says, pointing to the screen. “Spine is looking great.” She twists her wrist at an angle and clicks a button, and then suddenly, we’re looking at every intricate detail of a spinal cord.
It’s honestly kind of gross.
With every button pressed and movement of the probe, we’re shown each of the baby’s organs. Bo asks some questions, but I fail to fully focus my attention on them, enraptured by every little movement on the screen.
I doubt I’ll ever be fully able to conceptualise that this is all happening inside my body, but damn does it make me feel powerful to even consider it.
The camera zooms back out and onto the baby’s face, a white silhouette against a dark background.
“Baby is showing off and sucking their thumb,” the tech says, pointing to the screen. “It’s so cute when they do that,” she coos.
I unconsciously sit up, leaning closer to the screen. The pillow that had been supporting my shoulders falls out of place and onto the ground. Bo lets go of my hand to pick it up before placing it next to me on the mattress.
“You okay?” he asks, resting his hand on my knee.
“I can’t see… I can’t make out the shape of their hand.”
“Ms. McNulty?” the tech says, her eyes held on me. She removes the probe and places it in its holster attached to the monitor.
I shake myself, lowering against the mattress. “Sorry…”
“Is everything okay?”
I feel a rolling of my stomach, like nausea but far worse. That anxiety spreads across my abdomen, tightening my chest and pooling at the base of my throat, making my next words come out like an apology. “Do they have fingers? On… on both hands?”
“Oh,” the tech says, her upbeat tone remarkably still intact. “Yes. All ten fingers and toes.” She types something into the computer before shutting it off. Then reaches for the chart on the side of her desk, tucking it under her arm.
I swallow an apology over and over, my face burning red. Why would I ask that?
“We’ll get you some pictures on your way out, and you’ll hear from your doctor in the next few days if anything needs going over, but”—she tilts her head, attempting to catch my eye—“the baby is growing well,” she says, nodding as she looks between Bo and me. “There’s no reason for concern.”
“Thank you,” Bo says from beside me.
I watch as she walks over to the wall, presses the dispenser for hand sanitizer, and then turns to face me, rubbing her hands together. “Best of luck,” she says before stepping around the curtain and leaving the room.
I shut my eyes tight, attempting to strengthen my shaking breaths.
I thought, before today, that I knew what the phrase bittersweet meant. So much of these past few months has been just that. Wonderful with a painful layer hidden underneath.
But this… this is what bittersweet means.
All ten fingers and toes.
Every sense of relief is sharply followed by shame.
Every wave of shame is met with confusion.
Confusion gives way to guilt.
I immediately want to reassure myself that I wouldn’t have loved the baby less if they’d had my hand. That I don’t love myself any less than I would have if I had two fully formed hands. Even if I already know those things to be true, I still feel the need to repeat it, over and over.
But my initial reaction was relief.
I’m glad that the baby won’t struggle in the ways I have.
I feel happy for them. Then consider if I shouldn’t.
Afterward, I’m sad for the life experience they’ll miss out on.
That they’ll never know how existing in a body that the world is not designed to accommodate can create so many avenues of empathy for others, experiencing the same thing for a variety of reasons. The determination and the resilience that come from that. The community it cultivates.
The unique bond we could have shared.
With that thought comes another pang of guilt. For mourning, even for a split second, the loss of similarity. The inherent narcissism of wanting my kid to be like me. Because that’s what parents should do, right? Separate their kids from themselves and their own experiences so that they have room to grow into their own people. Accept them and offer unconditional love along the way.
I now realise it’s up to Bo and me to do the rest. Without a crash course from first-hand experience, we’ll need to be the ones to teach our kid how to navigate the world with that empathy. To see their privilege as a tool to use on behalf of others.
But also, to not let our burdens overtake them.
A delicate balance.
And once the thoughts and the confusion and the guilt settle alongside my breaths, I decide to trust that we’re up for the challenge.
Opening my eyes, I reach for the towel left beside me and wipe my stomach clean from the ultrasound gel. Then I turn to face Bo, offering him a timid, bashful smile.
“Well…” Bo sighs out, his tone deceptively serious, in juxtaposition with the twitch of his lips. “We’ll still love them, of course. Even if they’re, you know”—he grimaces—“four-limbed.”
I huff out a long breath, grateful for his deflection. “Disappointed?” I ask, slowly lowering my shirt and sitting up on the bed.
Bo’s lips shift into a wistful smile as he picks up my right hand from the mattress and squeezes it once. “No… but I’m not relieved either.”
“That’s how I feel too,” I say, blinking back the threat of tears.
“It wouldn’t have made a difference to me,” he says, rubbing a thumb against my wrist. “You know that, right?”
I nod, sniffling as a sob breaks free. “I feel stupid for asking.”
Bo stands and lowers himself onto the edge of the hospital bed, facing me. “Hey…” he says softly. “It’s okay that you wanted to know. You’re just trying to be prepared.” Bo holds my little hand by the wrist and stares at it. He brushes his thumb across my palm, his eyes held in concentration. “I lied,” he says, breathing out a bitter laugh. His face softens as his eyes trace the pattern of his thumb as he swipes it again. “I think I might be a bit disappointed.”
I sniffle, shaking myself as a smile breaks through. “C’mon, you don’t mean that.”
“You’re perfect, Win,” Bo says, as easily as breathing. “Of course I’d want them to have every part of you.”
It’s shocking how forcefully his words hit me in the chest. I could keel over if I wasn’t so intent on keeping his eyes held on mine.
The moment feels like a precipice. It seems obvious that he’s going to kiss me. It’s in his eyes. That narrowed, glazed expression I’ve seen before. The brief second in which he glances at my mouth. I prepare for it, wetting my lips and swallowing. But it doesn’t come.