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I tend to worry a lot. I think I got it from my mom. Growing up, every time my sister or I left the house we were subject to a diatribe on the ever growing list of possible tragedies that could befall us while away from home. The good news was that most of these calamities could be avoided by wearing a warm jacket. Mom was always concerned with the idea that we would freeze to death in a freak blizzard with no coat. It did not matter that it was July. And we were on our way to the pool. “Just in case,” she would warn, as we shoved our parkas in our beach bags on top of the suntan lotion.

As a kid, I slept in fear that monsters lurked under my bed or in my closet, just waiting for a plump toe to unearth itself from the protective force-field of my blankets. As years passed, and the monsters never came and got me, I worried that the dentist would. I rarely flossed and regularly bathed my teeth in soda, so wasn’t it only a matter of time before my teeth rotted out of my head? And as a teenager forced to wear dentures, I would be so traumatized at the thought of having them fall out during a pizza party or game of spin the bottle (which I never, ever played, Mom), that I would become a social recluse. Whereby I would inevitably be taunted at school, my grades would suffer, I wouldn’t get into college, and I would end up living in a card board box wearing old sweatshirts with ketchup stains that I fished out of a dumpster. Wasn’t it obvious?

With those tendencies firmly in place at an early age, now, as an adult, I am prone to the notion that the seeming order and structure of my life is a mere illusion, and something disastrous looms on the horizon waiting to wreak havoc. Of course I worry about the normal everyday things that occupy the minds of working wives and mothers everywhere. But somehow, these basic concerns, when left untended, frequently escalate into a wild frenzy. Can I fool my husband into thinking ham sandwiches are a legitimate dinner since I haven’t had time to go grocery shopping? When will I have time to grocery shop this week? Do we have enough money in the account for all the groceries? Will I have enough money to send my kids to college, when it will soon cost roughly the same amount as a kidney transplant? Will I ever need a kidney transplant? And if I need one, who’s going to be the donor? I don’t even know my blood type. What if it’s so rare that they never find a match? I bet no one loves me enough to give me a kidney. And so on…

My husband and I recently found out we are expecting our first child, leaving me with a fresh batch of new worries simmering in my mind. Will I be a good mom? What if I inadvertently do something to leave an indelible scar on his or her psyche, where it will fester for years until my own flesh and blood finally confronts me on an episode of Maury Povich? You know, one of those shows with the titles that rhyme like, “You grounded me for back-talkin, and now I’ve started street-walkin.”

What if my son comes to me with a question about math homework? I’ll take his textbook and pretend to be reading it over, while really remembering how I failed math twice in college, only passing because the teacher took pity on me and gave me a D with a note to “Get on with your life.”

I think about teaching my daughter to play lacrosse, a sport with a long history in my family. I could help hone her athletic skills, maybe even grooming her for an athletic scholarship to the college of her choice. Unless she doesn’t have athletic tendencies. In which case, she grows up resenting my constant meddling, always trying to push her into sports when she hated it. And once again, we’re back on Maury’s couch.

So, you can imagine the mild hysteria I was experiencing when my doctor had me schedule a first trimester screening, or nuchal translucency, to check for signs of Down Syndrome and other genetic abnormalities. After the test, which consisted of an ultrasound and finger prick, it would be five days before they had the results—five long days for me to pour over websites and baby books, to see all the possible challenges that might be detected.

The day of my appointment, I arrived at the doctor’s office two hours early in order to worry in closer proximity to the actual test itself.

Once I was up on the table, the nurse rubbed the instrument around in the goo on my stomach. Making small talk at first, she quieted down while staring intently at the screen. I knew it. I knew something was wrong. My baby is missing his nuchal. Or his translucency. Or worse, both. Even though I didn’t know what those were, I knew it was bad.

“Everything looks great,” she smiled.

“Really? Everything’s okay?” I wanted her to repeat it another thirty-five times.
“We still have to do the blood test just to be sure, but I’d say you have nothing to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about. We heard a strong heartbeat thump continuously and saw a small flutter on the monitor. In another 28 weeks, I’d have plenty of time to think about all the things that could possibly happen in his or her lifetime. But at this moment, there was nothing to worry about. For the time being, he or she was safe and secure. Just like being wrapped up in a warm jacket.

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