I go in to the scan and, it turns out, I do miss my husband

I’m halfway through the pregnancy and the 20-week scan is upon us. Or rather, upon me.

While some hospitals were allowing partners to attend this anomaly scan, most were not. I was all set to attend it alone when go tobann, six days before my appointment, the HSE asked maternity facilities to allow partners to visit for anomaly scans if possible – hurrah!

Five days before my appointment, I call the hospital to inquire: they say they have not changed the rules yet and have no plan to. Nooo.

Four days before my appointment – the hospital tweets! Partners to be admitted to attend (hurrah), but from two days after my scheduled appointment (nooo).

Death in a pandemic: ‘Gavin and I had to put our grief on the back burner’

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Allowing pharmacies to give AstraZeneca jab to health workers could ‘speed up’ rollout

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Covid-19: UK variant accounts for three in four cases in the State

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Being a single mother and frontline worker is no easy task in Covid times

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I call to reschedule but they are too busy so no dice I’m afraid. That’s fine. I’m happy to attend alone and feel bad only for my husband who really wanted to witness it first hand.

I’m briefly left alone with my hospital chart (which absolutely never happens) so I decide to have a flick through, see what information of mine they seem to guard so closely. Nothing too interesting only the hilarious revelation that when asked how many units of alcohol I drank weekly before I was pregnant, I apparently said “nine”. How on earth did I land on that extraordinarily modest figure!

I also read some notes around my first labour which say that the first stage of labour lasted zero hours and zero minutes. (What? It was an interminably long and painful six hours as far as I remember it). The second stage lasted one hour 25 minutes (okay) and the third stage was nine minutes (What the hell is the third stage? I make a mental note to look up the stages of labour).

I go into the scan and, it turns out, I do miss my husband. Because, last time, he was somehow able to see what they were describing on the screen so at least one of us knew what was going on. “Here’s the baby’s head and this is the brain . . . ” (pointing to more indecipherable blobs) “ . . . We come down on to the face, you can see the lens of the eye”. No actually, no I definitely can’t.

“Here we have the humerus . . . ” – I know that’s a bone (I know that much) but I don’t know which one. All I can think is, “Don’t tell him you know what phalanges are because you had to look them up yesterday after spending an hour reading the Fred West Wikipedia page. No definitely don’t mention Fred West. Too weird.”

I’ve been thinking too long though and he’s already moved on to another body part by the time I say, “Where’s the humerus? The shin? No, the thigh?” [A little tip: asking a question can sound intelligent. Asking a question but suggesting an (incorrect) answer, does not. Suggesting two incorrect answers, definitely does not.] It’s in the arm. And the scan is complete.

Everything is where it should be and is developing well. The doctor then allows me to video record him giving a 90-second summary of the scan for my partner.

This is also sent on to the grandparents who are completely in awe.

Part 1: This is all getting a bit Angela's Ashes
Part 2: We got bad news at the first baby scan
Part 3: What's the oldest woman you've delivered a baby to?
Part 4: Not yet telling your colleagues about the baby
Part 5: I go in to the scan and it turns out, I do miss my husband

[ @aislingmarron ]