I'd forgotten how time seemed to stop in the ultrasound center. Why is she taking so long on that side, you wonder. You hang on everything the technician says, half hoping and half dreading that she or she will drop a clue, desperate to hear something reassuring, and trying to act like a mature adult.
The week before the test you go through in suspended animation, wondering if the trip with one of your best friends will have to be put on hold, the plans for grad school shelved, where you can get a wig that looks like your own hair. The fear that has nothing to do with a reasonable acknowledgement both of mortality and odds.
And perhaps it's good to know what so many others experience -- to develop both a sense of proportion and one of empathy.
The ultrasound showed a normal anatomy. Life resumes -- and normalcy has rarely seemed so very touched by the unseen hand of an awesome God.
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My mom has gone through two bouts of breast cancer, so these feelings are well known in our household! For the rest of her life now, she will always experience that feeling, of holding her breath ... a good report this month, start breathing again ...
The "lingering" is heart-stopping, isn't it? While I have yet to have a mammogram, I will never forget this similar feeling when I was pregnant with Grace. An exciting, fun, "quick" 20-week ultrasound quickly turned into heavy minutes ticking by. The head, the organs, check ... the technician grew quiet, focused on Grace's feet -- back to the spine, then the feet again ... It was too quiet, too many views of the feet. It's funny how your heart just knows it needs to lurch, you know? Don was pretty clueless, but I instantly knew. It was too quiet -- tears sprang to my eyes before anything was even said. That's when our clubfoot journey began.
"It's hard being a grown-up sometimes," I told Aidan the other day. My kids are so carefree, so unaware ... I wish I could capture that from time to time. :) So glad to hear all is well!
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