Save this storySave this storySave this storySave this story
At the beginning of my first pregnancy, nearly three years ago, I engaged in a common activity among expectant mothers. I grabbed my phone and began watching videos featuring pregnant women accomplishing impressive feats. One clip showcased a woman with a prominent belly—probably around seven months along—surfing. She donned a bikini, showcasing her strong legs. Her hair flowed behind her as she rode down a wave. Upon seeing the video, I thought, Wow, good for her! genuinely. Weeks later, while on modified bed rest to safeguard my precarious pregnancy—stranded on my couch, hesitant to shower or ascend the stairs for fear of inducing labor—I recalled the surfing woman, this time with irritation. “Good for her!” I muttered to myself before resuming my reading.
The book I was engrossed in was Edith Wharton’s “The Custom of the Country,” published in 1913. It tells the story of a stunning social climber named Undine Spragg, who strives, through a succession of opportunistic marriages, to penetrate the upper echelons of New York society. I was drawn to Undine because she inhabited a different era from my own. Additionally, she pursued her desires without hesitation. When Undine discovers she is pregnant—a complication in her plans—she throws a tantrum. Her husband attempts to soothe her. “But, Undine—dearest—bye and bye you’ll feel differently—I know you will!” he reassures her. “Differently? Differently?” she retorts, furious. “When? In a year? It takes a year—a whole year out of life! What do I care how I shall feel in a year?”
Undine is self-centered. She craves social events and to look good. She doesn’t consider her husband, child, or anyone else but herself. (In fact, she proves to be quite a dreadful mother.) Nevertheless, I admired her unabashed rage, her absence of shame. She’s furious, dammit! I messaged a friend from the crumb-laden sofa where I spent my days, telling her I had attempted to read “Wolf Hall”—a narrative about King Henry VIII’s quest for an heir—but had to stop because it revolved around wombs. “Oh god true,” she replied. “I guess now you see EVERYTHING is about wombs.”
Two weeks prior, at the midpoint of my pregnancy, I attended a routine ultrasound. The National Health Service hospital in my North London neighborhood is one of those places—like a Roman ruin wedged between a barbershop and a Pret a Manger—where the city’s age astounds me. In the Northern California suburb where I was raised, where children greeted the orthodontist as an old family friend, medical facilities resembled office buildings or strip malls, with shiny interiors. In London, my hospital occupied a dilapidated Victorian structure built during the smallpox outbreak. It stood on a site that opened in 1473 to treat lepers.
To reach my appointment, my husband and I walked past a building featuring a massive clock and a sign reading “Small Pox & Vaccination Hospital,” before entering a separate structure marked “Female Receiving Ward.” A stained-glass window illustrated the Madonna and child. I recall almost nothing from the ultrasound other than the fact that the baby was healthy. The technician glided the wand over my belly, conducting her checks. We glimpsed the outline of his profile, his tiny nose.
Afterward, she printed a few images for us to take home, which we examined in a nearby café. This is going pretty well, I thought. My pregnancy thus far had been uneventful. Everything I had read about had occurred on schedule. The significant alterations to my sense of smell and appetite. The swelling. The nausea. The nausea subsiding. The baby was a raspberry and then an avocado. He was developing ears and fingernails. I purchased new clothes from an overpriced maternity store. I continued crafting stories. I went on vacation and swam in the sea. My husband and I exchanged glances. A baby!
An hour after our appointment, the technician called me. I was at home, attempting to write. The baby was fine, but she had observed some slight funnelling around my cervix, she mentioned. She hadn’t wanted to bring it up at the time because she wasn’t entirely sure of what she had seen. “O.K.,” I replied. I tried to recall the cervix’s function. The cervix should remain long and closed until the conclusion of the pregnancy, she informed me. If it opens prematurely, you may need to receive a stitch. “A stitch?” I asked. It was likely nothing, she reassured me. The doctor would contact me if there were any issues. That was a Friday. The weekend went by. I searched for “cervix” and “funnelling” online repeatedly. “A marker of cervical insufficiency,” I read, “increased risk of spontaneous preterm delivery.” It seemed the cervix was indeed quite crucial. Funnelling could appear on a scan in the shape of a U, a V, or a Y. I tried to recall if I had seen a U, a V, or a Y during our ultrasound. U, U, U, I thought. V, V, V.
On Monday, while I was working at the British Library, the doctor called. I explained what the technician had mentioned. He sounded displeased. “She shouldn’t have told you that,” he replied. The cervix is a dynamic organ, he clarified. It can move and shift naturally throughout pregnancy without any issues. I was relatively young and had no other warning signs. There was nothing in my family history. She shouldn’t have said anything at all, he continued, but since she had, and since I was now anxious, he would schedule a follow-up ultrasound in a month. He appeared preoccupied.
I returned to my desk. I envisioned my cervix moving and undulating like action lines in a comic book. Zoing! Boing! Until that point, I had felt proud of how I managed to contain my anxiety during the pregnancy. I would casually sip coffee and explain that Emily Oster had mentioned in her book that it was perfectly acceptable to drink several cups a day. (And do you have a copy? I can lend you mine!) But now my covert Googling had caught up with me. I arranged for a private ultrasound on Wednesday. We were set to travel to Sweden to visit my brother-in-law on Friday
Sourse: newyorker.com