I spent a good part of my childhood living in a subsidized housing complex in Kitchener. I didn’t know that it was dingy or small or that our neighbourhood was poor or what government subsidy was. I thought of it as home.
Twice this procedure has been rescheduled. Which was extra disappointing because once I decided to move ahead I was focused and eager. This time, so far so good.
“Whatever you do don’t move north of Steeles.” Our house had grown too small and it was time to make a decision.
We were brought to a kind of holding room. Michael walked and I was wheeled. No word of our baby or what was going to happen next.
Week 4. On a warm Saturday evening, Michael and I attended a wedding in Kitchener, for the son of my dad’s wife.
The weekend of waiting. I felt on edge, disconnected from the world, hyper-aware of the unwell baby inside me who was also dealing with this crisis in a much more direct way.
The next few hours at the hospital were a haze of countless ultrasounds and a parade of physicians and in the end, the diagnosis was right.
I came out to the reception area and now everything looked different.
I drove from Sarilyn’s office in the east end to the ultrasound clinic downtown. I didn’t mind terribly. This felt important – I was looking after myself – and also meant I was excused from work for the next couple of hours.
I can’t remember the first midwife’s name. Might have been Andrea.