“Anencephaly is a serious birth defect in which a baby is born without parts of the brain and skull. Normally, as the neural tube forms and closes, it helps form the baby’s brain, skull, spinal cord, and backbone. Anencephaly occurs if the upper part of the neural tube does not close all the way, thus leaving parts of the brain permanently unformed.”
The compassion deepens in Dr. Wagner eyes and she licks her lips, presses them together before continuing.
“This often results in a fetus being born without the front part of the brain, the forebrain, and the thinking and coordinating part of the brain, the cerebrum. The remaining parts of the brain are often not covered by bone or skin.”
“Not covered by skin and bone?” The words forcibly eject from my mouth. “What does that mean?”
“It’s why we can tell from the ultrasound that the fetus has anencephaly. Let me show you,” Dr. Wagner says, turning the screen around for us to see. “Here, we can see that the top of the head and the brain are . . . missing, and there is only a thin membrane covering that portion, no skull or scalp.”
A moan slices into her explanation, and I’m startled to realize it came from me. I cover my mouth, but I can’t cover my heart. I can’t silence the scream ricocheting in the chambers of my soul. It’s piercing. It’s painful.
“Many are stillborn.” Dr. Wagner presses on despite flicking a concerned look my way. “Those who are delivered as live births will live minutes or hours, in rare cases, a few days.”
“No,” I mutter under my breath. “This can’t be right. A test—there has to be a test, a second opinion.”
“Yeah,” Grip pipes in. “A real test, not just a blurry picture telling us our baby might have this condition.”
“Like I said, we’ll perform the amniocentesis, certainly,” Dr.
Wagner agrees.
Her pause drops heavily into the waiting quiet.
“I know this is a lot to take in,” Dr. Wagner says. “But we’ll need to discuss your options.”
“We have options?” I ask, a harsh laugh cutting the inside of my jaw.
“Yes, options.” Dr. Wagner looks from Grip to me and back again. “Decisions.”
The word “decisions” sends a chill up my spine. Oh, God, no. She can’t seriously be asking me to do that.
“More than ninety percent of parents with this diagnosis terminate the pregnancy,” Dr. Wagner says quietly. “I know that’s hard to process, but the fetus—”
“Stop saying fetus,” Grip snaps. “It’s our baby. Call it our baby.”
Dr. Wagner nods, meeting the frustration and naked pain in Grip’s eyes head on.
“I understand,” she says, her tone simultaneously soft and firm. “But you will have to deal with these decisions sooner rather than later. We are . . . well, certain options are time-sensitive.”
My fingers are numb. Tears swim in my eyes, suspended but refusing to fall, frozen there by the chill creeping into my bones and through every cell of my body.
“We’ll take the amniotic fluid today to test,” Dr. Wagner says briskly, standing. “And discuss . . . next steps once we have those results. It typically takes about ten days for NTDs, neural tube defects.”
She’s moving on, and I’m still dazed, shaken, shocked.
“Is the . . .” The word “fetus” stings the tip of my tongue. “Our baby, what is it?”
Dr. Wagner frowns, shaking her head.
“Until you decide how you want to move forward,” she says, “I think knowing the gender will only make it more difficult.”
“Let me get this straight.” Grip tilts his head and runs his tongue over his teeth in that way that means he’s nearing the end of his tether. “You give us a death sentence for our child—”
“Mr. James—”
“No, I get it,” he cuts in. “It’s not your fault. You’re just doing your job, but if you think us knowing whether it’s a girl or a boy is going to make this decision any harder, you’re wrong.”
“It . . . humanizes the decision in a way that only complicates it for the parents.”