Ultrasound

Saturdays are ultrasound days at the local hospital.

I am still amazed that this establishment, hardly more than a rural clinic servicing hundreds of kilometers in every direction, has an ultrasound machine at all. It has no running water. Its electricity is pumped in from a generator out back. The toilets are moderately clean pit latrines. But it has an ultrasound machine. And on Saturdays women with various sized bellies politely hidden under colorful tobes line the breezy corridors waiting for their chance to glimpse that grainy image of their baby. This Saturday, I was one of those women.

Bryan and I went in at ten in the morning. We parked under a flame tree in full bloom near to the store room where boxes of medical supplies were still being unloaded from the recent DC-3 flight. We walked into the building which has whitewashed walls, green shuttered windows and a broad tin roof. Everything smelled mildly of antiseptic which reminded me of the Dettol we used to wash out newborn puppies in as kids. People sat in small clusters in the courtyard or waited on benches in the hallways. Hospital staff in blue uniforms passed by carrying buckets or slips of paper. Two doctors care for the hundreds of patients in this hospital, but I didn’t see either one of them.

We were met by our good friend James, a Kenyan nurse who works at the hospital training traditional birth attendants in this area. He has birthed hundreds of babies in at least three different countries that I know of, and if given the chance, I would let him help me birth mine in a heartbeat. He is a gifted nurse and very good friend to Bryan and me. James showed us into his office, a dim room with a desk, metal cabinet and small hospital bed with a blue mattress. Behind him a door opened into one of the wards and I could see a line of beds, mosquito nets and a tall woman empting bedpans. In the bed closest to us, just beyond the wall, I could see two bare feet with their soles facing back towards us.

I told James about our first visit with the doctor in East Africa and that she had asked to be sent e-mails about our monthly checkups out here. I had assured her that we would have access to good prenatal care and James assured me that I had not in fact lied to her. We went through the basics quickly: blood pressure, good; urine sample, good; weight, good; uterine height, good. And then James asked us the question I had been waiting for, “Would you like to see your baby?”

On the creaky hospital bed I was actually a little shy to pull up my shirt so the woman in the headscarf could squeeze the cold clear gel onto my bare skin. In a world where I never show my shoulders much less my belly button it felt odd to be lying there so exposed, but no one else really seemed to notice so I let it go. James ran the ultrasound wand over my stomach and I craned my neck around to look at the tiny gray monitor. Bryan leaned in closer and two more women appeared from nowhere and stepped in curiously too. I guess it’s not every day you get to see a Khawaja’s baby. It’s not every day for me either so I didn’t mind the company.
The first thing we saw was what looked like an orange seed in a cashew nut. The image was fuzzy and honestly, I am still quite new at recognizing my own uterus. The grey and black and white static was bleary and confused. But then James settled on a place and our baby jumped to life. Even with my neck twisted back awkwardly to look at that tiny screen, I felt like I would recognize that unrecognizable seed anywhere. He was jumping and waving like he knew we were watching. She was dancing and moving like she knew she had an audience. Spastic, uncontrolled brand new muscle spasms have never been so lovely to behold. “Your baby is very energetic!” James said. “He or she is already taking after their father.” I replied. James took his time and let us take in our fill of newly un-flippered arm and leg buds, the broad curve of a little-less alien head and the breathless flutter of a heartbeat. The women around us tittered at our excitement and when I told them it’s the first time I’ve ever been pregnant they smiled happily and shook my hand.

We left the hospital only thirty minutes after we had arrived and without having paid a cent. (The hospital is run solely by a relief organization in the area.) As we drove home I couldn’t help but be so happy. I know that in a few months when it is 114 degrees outside and I feel like a beached whale, I am going to be thinking of all the other places in the world I would rather be pregnant. And the next time that craving for a Reeses Pieces Dairy Queen Blizzard hits, I might be a little pouty for a while. And if I go into labor early and have a baby in a hospital with no running water, I might freak out a little bit at some point along the way. But on Saturday, being told my baby was perfectly healthy by a good friend I trust implicitly, in a place that feels more like home every day, (and without having paid a fortune!) I was overcome with just feeling very, very blessed.