“I felt it move, Trevor, and I know exactly what that feeling means,” I said as I pressed my hand against my stomach. The doctor called for calm but her expression turned grave as she ordered an immediate ultrasound to investigate my claim.
A nurse brought in the portable machine and spread the cold gel over my skin before sliding the transducer across my abdomen. A small, living baby appeared on the black and white screen, moving its tiny hands in the rhythmic way of a developing life.
The nurse stopped smiling and looked at the measurements with a sense of growing dread. “You are approximately twenty weeks along,” she said in a quiet voice that barely carried across the room.
Trevor took a staggering step back toward the wall as if he had been physically struck by the news. “That is simply impossible,” he muttered while shaking his head in disbelief.
I looked at him with tears blurring my vision because I felt trapped between a living nightmare and a miracle. “Why would you say it is impossible when we are looking right at the screen?” I asked him.
He covered his mouth with a trembling hand and looked away from the image of the child. “Because after Lily and Mia were born, I had a vasectomy that we both agreed upon,” he explained.
I remembered that day clearly because we had decided together that my body had endured enough after the twins. The hospital staff ordered a battery of tests while Trevor insisted on having his own procedure checked for any signs of failure.
