Did the ultrasound technician just call me fat? (and other stupid stories that could only happen to me)
I went in for my 12 week ultrasound earlier this week. It was exciting, because I’d been following the baby’s progress on my new favourite iPhone app, “BabyBump Pregnancy Pro”. Apparently, the baby had doubled in size the previous week and was beginning to flex its limbs. As you already know, a lot of the joy of this pregnancy has been overshadowed by the 24/7 nausea and chronic cough I’ve been struggling with. So, I couldn’t wait to see the wee sprog that was causing all this havoc!
Pat and I get to the waiting room where I abandon any pretense at grace and throw myself into the corner chair closest to the fan (Montreal’s been suffering a heatwave lately and as I write this, the humidex reads 43 Celcius and climbing!). Unfortunately, the way the oscillation was set meant that the fan turned coyly away just before I got anything but the barest whisper of breeze.
Am I giving you the impression that I’ve turned into a raging, unreasonable, overheated crankypants? Good. Because you have no idea!
Adding insult to injury was the couple sitting opposite us. She was gorgeous. Tall, blonde, pencil slim and perfectly made up. She wore high heels and a lovely ruffled wrap-around dress with a belt that cinched just above the cutest little bump. If you weren’t looking, you might not even realize she was three months along. (Eavesdropping? Who me?)
Meanwhile, I felt approximately as together as a drunk juggler with Parkinson’s on stilts.
When it was our turn for the ultrasound, I lay down on the bed while the technician smeared cold jelly on my belly. Pat made himself comfy in a chair next to the monitor and we both squinted eagerly at it. Nothing. I’ve seen more meaningful images while lying in the grass in Parc Lafontaine and staring at clouds.
“Hmm,” said the technician, pressing down firmly on my uterus, causing me to be VERY glad I’d taken a pee break five minutes before.
“What’s wrong?” asked Pat.
“Well,” said the technician, practically skewering me with the ultrasound wand. “We’re not getting a clear image.”
“How come?” I asked.
“It must be your skin. Or something,” replied the technician, tapping furiously at keys on her console with one hand while pressing down harder still with the wand.
“Some people are just not echogenic. Usually it’s obese women. You know, because of the abdominal fat. But you’re the worst case I’ve ever had.”
Did the technician just call me fat?
“Am I really that fat?” I ask.
“No, no. In fact, when the patient walks in, I always have my fingers crossed that she’ll be slim. So when I saw you, I was really happy. But you’re a tough case.”
Okaaay?
If you’re a woman who’s had an ultrasound, you probably know what happened next. Yup. We had to do what’s called an “endo-vaginal” ultrasound. This is just clever doctor-speak for sticking a sizeable ultrasound wand up your wazoo and waving it about in an attempt to get a clearer shot of the fetus.
Let’s just say it’s not how Barry White would have played it.
Pat, meanwhile, thought it was totally hilarious.
I had to admit it was all pretty funny, but was terrified to laugh because the baby was lying on one side of my bladder and the wand was poking about on the other. I was one cough away from really giving the technician a story to tell on her lunch break.
After 45 minutes of prodding and jiggling (the baby kept moving about and not displaying the angle we needed) the technician managed to get a nice shot of the back of the baby’s neck (in order to measure the nuchal ligament, one of the key indicators of Down’s Syndrome). Everything appeared to be normal.
And at the very end, the baby graced us with a particularly clear image of him (or her) lying on his back sucking his thumb.
Aww.
And suddenly it was all worth it. Well, I still glared at Little Miss Perfect Bump on the way out, as I slapped by in my sensible flip flops, but I wasn’t nearly as cranky as I was before.
