It took the midwife a few minutes to find it. She put the goo on the tip of the Doppler and pushed it against Natania's stomach. At first, we could hear my wife's heart. It sped up as time passed. So did mine. At one point, I realized I was actually holding my breath.
At the first appointment, they told us that sometimes you can't hear the heartbeat. At 8 weeks, the Doppler device probably won't register the sounds. They're too faint, washed out by the noises from the mother's intestines, and her larger, slower heart. The way it works is, the device throws soundwaves out. They come back, but are altered by movement. The thing makes a horrible racket when the midwife powers it up and brings it to the belly, because the noises it generates are electronic, far from anything a human makes.
I was still holding my breath. Natania stared at her stomach; I stared at Natania. They say that sometimes you can't hear the heartbeat, but not to worry. At 12 weeks, it's almost always audible, but sometimes it isn't. You're not supposed to worry. Sometimes they don't even do it until later, because it can really upset parents-to-be.
It was upsetting me. I wanted to hear something that told me that everything was all right, that things were coming along, that everything that we--and, really, Natania--were going through wasn't for nothing. I wanted to know that my wife was on her way toward the end of morning sickness and soreness and all the M.O.P., as the midwife called them. Mainly, though, I wanted my first communication with this small creature, whom I desperately wish to meet in August, who is currently the size of a lime but will (with all our hopes and dreams) eventually grow much larger, who is currently siphoning somewhere between 150 and 350 calories from my wife's diet but will (again, hopefully) enjoy sushi and North Carolina barbeque and dad's homemade salsa, who is currently attached to Natania quite physically but will (with all of the usual exceptions, including car privileges and dating and the countless embarrassing stories, like this one) grow pretty fond of this other one who is somewhat responsible for its creation.
I just wanted to say, "Hi."
The midwife moved the small device down, and again I heard my wife's heart pushing blood through her body, soft and muffled. And then something else. Louder, clear as an infant's steel-blue eyes, and fast. A normal fetal heart rate is between 120 and 160 beats per minute. The midwife counted 150. Natania and I, we both laughed and cried a little. The chance for miscarriage, the midwife told us, drops to 1% once you hear the heartbeat.
Now we just have to get started on worrying about all the other stuff. That's fine with me. I think I can deal with it, really. I'm just looking forward to saying, "Hi," again.
