Five months later, I got a call from a physician who was filling in for my doctor; she canceled my appointment, claiming she was uncomfortable transferring a mosaic embryo. I was livid and overcome with grief.
“The larger question that emerges with embryo testing is who gets to take on the risk of possibly bringing a child with potential disabilities into the world,” Dr. Taylor said. “The decision should not be left to physicians. Patients should be given the freedom to decide, and properly counseled in cases where there are abnormalities that will inevitably lead to death.”
Parents I had met online described wheeling or driving their frozen abnormal and mosaic embryos in unwieldy metal tanks to other clinics when their physicians refused to transfer. Fortunately, my regular doctor came back and scheduled a new appointment for the following month.
My husband and I got lucky. Our beautiful, imperfect embryo attached to the uterine wall, mesmerizing us with her wild beating heart at biweekly ultrasounds. As each week brought on fresh worries — that I could miscarry, that the baby might have other abnormalities not caught at embryo testing — I found comfort in Dr. Taylor’s words: “Mosaicism is more common than we think. Many of us are mosaic without knowing it.”
At three months, my doctor recommended a blood test that checked the baby’s DNA fragments in my blood to see if she was at risk for genetic abnormalities. At this point, my husband and I had begun to notice families in the dog park whose children had genetic disabilities. We quietly found acceptance that we would add variety to the families in our community and decided that we wouldn’t terminate the baby — no matter the result.
They came back as normal. But like embryo testing, the blood test couldn’t diagnose a fetus’s genetic condition with certainty. Our doctor offered a more accurate amniocentesis test, but we had already made our decision. I decided to leave it there.
Now, during ultrasounds, our daughter hides her face behind her hands or presses hard against the placenta, as if asking us to let her grow in privacy. The last time I glimpsed her full profile, at five months gestation, her nose, long and sharp, was prominent and unmistakable. I wondered if it was one of the characteristics of the extra 22nd chromosome or if she’d simply inherited my husband’s nose. As my due date draws nearer, her genetic profile is less of a concern. I’m thrilled we’ve made it this far.
