When my unborn baby was a five-month-old fetus, twisting about in the internal dark, he was given a death sentence by a man I shall call Anton.
We’d gone, my husband and I, for a 20-week scan at our local hospital. Anton was our designated sonographer; we arrived in his room bright-eyed and anxious, as even elderly first-time parents are. We looked to Anton for reassurance, but Anton looked only at his assistant, a sulky 19-year-old sexpot from Romania.
The sexpot tried seven times to dig into the vein in my right arm, then began on the left. ‘Don’t worry, good practice, try again,’ said Anton to her, kindly. ‘No, don’t worry at all!’ said I, pathetically.
During an ultrasound the sonographer runs a plastic scanner over the mother’s naked belly, and that classic grainy image of the fetus appears on screen. For Anton, this was a romantic opportunity. The hottie held the mouse — ‘She is learning the ropes’ — Anton placed his mitt over hers and together their hands glided over my belly, circling, swooping in the manner of Torvill and Dean. ‘Spine, kidneys…’ Anton whispered lovingly in her right ear, ‘head circumference, abdomen, femur…’ Can we find out the baby’s gender? I asked. Is everything OK? Anton kept schtum. Why do some sonographers stay silent, when every parent they meet looks desperately to them for reassurance?
After half an hour Anton pronounced himself done and told us to take a seat. ‘Well. Baby is quite small,’ he began.
Is that a problem? I said, not panicking just yet. Still inhabiting what was soon to be our old reality, as parents-to-be of a healthy child.
‘In this case, I think yes,’ said Anton. ‘I think either genetic abnormality or more likely placental insufficiency.’
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