The second second Monday in January.

Both Gilles and I faced down the 20-week anatomy scan with sheer terror. This would be it, the moment all our good luck would change. We felt it. We feared it.

I had booked the appointment for 20 weeks on the dot, January 9. One morning about a week beforehand, I jolted awake in a cold sweat. January 9? How could I have forgotten? That was the date we first heard that last year's recently begun dream of becoming parents would be shattered!

Of course, I know: just because it's history doesn't mean it needs to repeat itself. I'm not superstitious. But still. The appointment would have to be changed.

Like Oedipus, though, who in desperately fleeing his fate only draws himself closer to it, I rescheduled the appointment for the second Monday in January. The second Monday in January? How could I have forgotten? That was the day we first heard ..., et cetera!

By the time I realized, it was too late to change it again. And, of course, I know: just because it's history ..., et cetera. Just keep thinking that over and over again, and it will remain true.

***

We had told nobody about the appointment in advance. It was scheduled for very early in the morning and we thought we could sneak out without the rest of the household knowing. But fifteen minutes before our planned departure time, while I was dressing, I heard the shower turn on in the other bathroom.

I hopped into the living room, hair dripping, pulling on the rest of my clothes. "Let's go," I barked to Gilles. "I don't want anybody to see us!"

Under the cover of a dark winter's dawn, we stole away like criminals, ashamed of the potential for pain that this appointment could bring.

***

We were especially nervous because we didn't know what – or who – to expect. In Switzerland, ultrasounds are performed only by doctors, which is nice because they can give immediate medical feedback – not the case with American sonographers, some of whom, from what I've heard, can be downright nasty in their transducer-wielding manner and mandate not to release any information. Of course, not all Swiss doctors are exempt from such nastiness (ahem, asshole gynecologist), but our prince(ss) is. We missed her, her cool hands, her warm touch.

We missed her until we met our sonographer. Sweet, friendly, calm, reassuring, and informative about everything she was doing, everything she was seeing.

And everything she was seeing looked perfect. Or, rather, in sonographer language, "normal." But look at this. That's perfect, isn't it?

Could I search for something to worry about? Why, of course I could. For example, baby, so big at the last ultrasound, is now measuring a day or two behind. I wouldn't worry about that day or two if baby hadn't been such a big'un in the past. Well, no matter. I won't worry about that day or two at all.

Nor will I worry about "spine sag." Perhaps you've heard of it? It's a serious deformation of the vertebral column that leaves baby incapable of supporting its own weight in an upright position and unable to ever ... no, no, it's not that at all. It's merely a way of pointing out that a particular pictorial capture of the spine was taken on the sagittal plane.

But I didn't know that when, just after starting the examination, the sonographer tapped out the two words on the keyboard and they appeared on the screen we were staring at, in awe of the little being flipping around inside me. My heart fell and my voice quavered. "What is spine sag?"

Oh.