Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Amy
The ultrasound gel is always colder than it needs to be.
It’s never warm, never room temperature, never even just cool. It's arctic, applied directly to my belly in a way that makes me wonder if this violates some sort of torture convention—but I guess that's a bit dramatic.
Then again, at thirty-two weeks, I'm not sure there's such a thing as too dramatic.
I lie back on the paper-covered exam table and try to be calm, because that is what pregnant women do at prenatal appointments.
We lie there and smile and ask thoughtful questions.
We don't catastrophize, or play emergency musical chairs in our heads, or think about every possible thing that could go wrong.
Or, say, create a color-coded Asana plan, then dump it into an AI program and ask it to identify, analyze, and generate a response for every risk over 0.008%.
No, no, we don't do that. That would be neurotic.
We're waiting for the doctor because the ultrasound tech saw something troubling.
She didn't say she saw anything bad, just hesitated the tiniest bit and did that head tilt thing. When she focused up, moved the wand over the same area repeatedly, and took measurements, I knew.
Hamish sits close beside me. His hand is in mine, big and solid, thumb rubbing slow circles across my knuckles. He's been doing that for most of the last fifteen minutes. Quiet touch. Calming touch.
It's unnerving.
Dr. Biswas comes in with the capable energy of someone who spends her days measuring life in millimeters for women who have worst-case-scenario binders.
"Hi, Amy. Let's take a look."
She checks my chart before picking up where the tech left off.
"You've gained eighteen pounds."
"Look at me, thriving," I say.
"Eighteen pounds is nothin'," Hamish snorts. "Her mum and her sisters still hate her."
"Everything looks good so far. Blood pressure is great. Baby's heartbeat is strong. No protein in your urine."
Relief loosens my shoulders, but then she pauses. Not long, but long enough to make my heart sink.
I know pauses. Pauses in meetings mean someone is about to ask for something. Pauses in relationships mean someone is about to leave. Pauses in medical offices mean my worst-case scenario planning is about to be invoked.
Dr. Biswas squirts more gel and moves the wand around.
"One thing to note today." Her non-wand hand goes to the back of my hand. "Baby is breech."
"Breech."
Hamish sits up straighter.
"Breech? Ye mean upside down?" I look at him, surprised he knows that. "Aye, Pookie came into the world arse backwards. We always tease her about her long neck from being stretched."
"Baby's head is up, near Amy's ribs," Dr. Biswas says, turning the monitor. "The bottom is down."
I stare at the grainy image that is our child, a fuzzy alien skeleton.
"At thirty-two weeks, a lot of babies are still turning," she says. "This is not an emergency."
Panic. At what stage do we panic?
"When does breech become a problem?" I ask immediately. "What's the timeline? What are the odds of turning? What can we do? What's the risk if the baby doesn't turn? What's the plan?"
Hamish's fingers squeeze mine. My bones are the problem, though. They're the wrong shape to hold my baby the right way.
"We'll monitor position at your next visit. There are exercises and positions that can encourage baby to rotate. We can also discuss an external cephalic version later, around thirty-six to thirty-seven weeks, if baby is still breech."
"External cellophane what?" Hamish asks.
"External cephalic version," she explains. "We use pressure on your abdomen to attempt to turn baby to head down. It's done in a hospital setting."
"And if that doesn't work?" I ask, because she's not giving me the rock-solid certainty I need to stop the world from spinning.
It's the baby that needs to spin.
"Then we talk about alternative delivery options. Many breech babies are delivered via C-section."
Hamish knows I don't want that. Eyes steady, he watches me.
"Is it risky?" he asks seriously, and I ache at hearing my dear, sunny husband go into the dark void of bad possibilities.
"A C-section is a common surgery," she says. "We prefer baby to be head down for a vaginal delivery. If baby stays breech, we'll absolutely have a plan. You won't be alone in this."
She hands me photocopied diagrams and a list of recommended positions. They all involve gravity and a certain amount of humiliation. Forward-leaning inversion. Knee-chest position. Pelvic tilts. The one called a breech tilt looks like something from Mom's porny shower games.
"Try these for a couple of weeks," she says. "Many babies turn on their own. You have plenty of time."
As she wipes the gel off my belly, I let the word ricochet off the interior of my skull:
Breech. Breech. Breech.
Screech. Screech. Screech.
As I pat my belly in the hallway, I realize I've been rubbing her butt when I thought I was stroking her head.
We get in the car and Hamish starts the engine, then reaches for my hand before he puts it in drive.
"Ye okay, pet?"
I stare out the windshield at the perfect spring day, taking in the blue sky, the sunlight, the fresh green trees just a few shades lighter than Hamish's eyes.
Will our baby have his eyes, or my blue ones?
Will she inherit our hair, or something different?
What will she be like, light and fun like her father, or more like me?
The world is behaving like nothing in my body has shifted, like my baby is properly aligned, like everything that was smooth isn't now wrinkled and wrong.
"I'm fine," I say automatically.
He waits, watching with eyes that know my truth. He is also my truth, this man who completes me, balances me (no pun intended, given we're dealing with a literally flipped baby).
"Okay, I'm not fine. I feel... tight inside. Like my brain is gripping a steering wheel, white-knuckling it, not knowing how this ends."
"Aye," he says softly. "I feel that, too."
"You leave in a month," I say. "For the exhibition game, and the studio."
His eyes flick to mine.
"And I'm supposed to fly out there. But what if the baby stays breech? What if I go into labor early? What if you're in another country and I'm here?"
His jaw tightens. He accelerates slowly, as if driving carefully can keep the universe from being reckless.
"If ye canna fly, ye canna fly. I'll come back if the bairn comes early."
"Hamish—"
"Amy. I'm no' leavin' ye ta do this yerself. No' for a match, or a studio. That's a job. It's a way ta use ma talents and make money. But support doesna just mean money—it means bein' present."
He glances at me, eyes fierce.
"I'll be there. Every second it counts."
As soon as we get home, I text the family group thread.
Baby is breech. OB says not panicking yet.
I hit Send and regret it instantly.
Mom responds first: brEECH. OKAY. I HAVE IDEAS
Of course she does.
Shannon: Are you okay?
Carol: Breech at 32 weeks is common. There's a chiropractor in Uxbridge who specializes in this
Mom is just getting started: There is a yoga sling. We can get one. You can hang gently. Also pineapple. Pineapple encourages rotation
Carol: Pineapple does not affect fetal position. Amy, I'm sending pelvic tilt diagrams
Shannon: Mom, how does eating pineapple rotate a baby?
Mom: I didn't say she eats it
"Ewwwww!" I squeal out loud, just as Hamish appears with my Bengal Spice tea and his Earl Grey.
"What did Marie say now?"
"She wants me to put pineapple in my vagina."
"To enhance the flavor?"
"What's wrong with my vagina's flavor?"
He looks stricken. I know that look; it's an expression he wears constantly these days. I call it Don't piss off the pregnant lady.
"Yer vagina is a gourmet feast," he begins earnestly, and as overwhelmed as I am with the breech news, I burst out laughing.
"A gourmet feast?"
"A Michelin four-star restaurant."
"Michelin only goes as high as three stars."
"See? Yer vagina is so good, it gets four stars and breaks their record."
My phone buzzes and I groan.
"Oh, no—I forgot! Our first childbirth class is in an hour!"
"I canna wait," he says. "This is going ta be fun."
"I'm going to spend the entire time worried she's upside down."
My phone buzzes again.
Mom: We should do a crystal grid. Breech is a matter of energy, and if we all hum in unison, we can bend energy
Carol: No
Shannon: No
Me: No
Mom: You are all so negative. Also have you tried music near the pelvis? Or opening your legs and having Hamish ring a cowbell?
I snort and show him the screen.
"Mom wants you to open my legs and ring a cowbell."
"Is that from Urban Dictionary? A sex position we havena tried yet?"
"No. A real cowbell."
"To scare the baby into rotating?"
"I think so."
"Yer Mum is scaring me without a cowbell."
Carol drops three links: Here is Spinning Babies. ACOG info. A study on ECV success rates. Do the exercises. Don't let anyone light incense near your vagina
Mom: That was my next suggestion!
I text back: My vagina is not for experiments
Hamish reads that one over my shoulder. "It is fer me."
I punch him, then take a sip of tea.
Carol: Also I just remembered a friend whose baby was asynclitic. The midwife had to put her entire arm in up to the elbow to rotate the head
I type: WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT
Carol: Because you need to be prepared
Shannon: Carol! Stop!
A wave of nausea rises. Actual nausea. For the first time in this entire pregnancy, I feel truly sick, like my body waited until week thirty-two to say, Surprise.
I type: Excellent. I'm finally nauseated. Thanks everyone, you've achieved your goal
Shannon sends a crying/laughing emoji.
Carol sends a link to ginger chews.
Mom sends a link to a telepathic midwife who claims to rotate babies via Zoom calls and doesn't take insurance.
"Why does she need Zoom if she's psychic?" Hamish asks.
I stand, waddling to the bathroom to get ready for class.