“Your baby has a brain cyst,” said the doctor.
I stared at her and blinked. It was my second pregnancy, and I was there for a routine scan and to hopefully find out my baby’s sex. I had not signed up for any brain cysts.
On the ultrasound screen, two hemispheres of a tiny brain glowed white against black, like a cowrie shell under dark water.
On the edge of the shell was a shifting black blob, the supposed cyst, so grainy it almost wasn’t real.
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do while she’s inside you,” said the doctor. “You’ll need to come in for monthly scans until her birth. The specialists will be looking after your case. For now, don’t worry. See you in a month.”
I had not signed up for any brain cysts.
And with that, I was ejected out into the glaring daylight.
Did that really just happen?, I asked myself on my walk home, where the fear of catching COVID-19 was palpable in every person I passed on the street.
I’d discovered my pregnancy earlier that autumn. Back then, most people still believed that the pandemic would blow over like a storm in a teacup.
But not me.
There was life inside me and I was determined to defend it from this enemy. I took up mask-wearing early, declined get-togethers with friends, and gave the snifflers and coughers at work a stern scolding.
We locked down not long after, to my relief.
But neither lockdown nor the stronghold of my womb could prevent this dark intruder — an arachnoid cyst — from taking root inside my baby’s tiny skull.
The information I found on the condition showed a life that would be blighted by suffering: brain surgery, delayed infant development, vertigo, headaches, and problems with hearing and vision.
This could not be my child. No. There’s definitely been a mistake, I thought.
It was a lie I happily embraced.
But at the next scan, as her brain cyst once again stared back from the screen like a malevolent eye, all hope disintegrated; for what did my defenceless child have against this menace?
Throughout that locked-down winter, I went under black water. Terror and grief swept in.
When my eldest asked me why mama was crying again, I couldn’t tell her that there was something wrong with her sibling in my belly. So I’d fall apart only at night while everyone slept.
I didn’t have the strength to perform the happiness expected of a pregnant woman, so I went as far as hiding in my car to avoid a visiting family member.
On some mornings, I couldn’t even get up.
Outside, a deadly virus swirled through the air. Inside, my baby inhaled the poisonous waters of my body. In darker moments, I blamed myself for the cyst.
Was it because I was reckless? A bad mother?
With my last ounce of strength, I reached out to the only mother tribe I had in isolation: a Facebook group of 27,000 mums.
I wrote anonymously: Hi, my unborn baby has been diagnosed with a physical abnormality. I cannot tell anyone, and I feel guilty that I cannot think of her as separate from her affliction.
I will forever feel grateful for those internet mums who threw me a lifeline, sharing their own experiences with an abnormal pregnancy.
“Don’t feel guilty if you’d rather not tell anyone,” wrote one mother. “This is part of self-care. Having to manage other people’s reactions can make you feel worse. ”
“I know it may not feel like it now,” wrote another mum. “But when I met my baby, I realised she was a complete human being, ‘imperfections’ and all.”
Their words lit my way. I was not alone.
This is part of self-care. Having to manage other people’s reactions can make you feel worse.
I’m superstitious about naming children before birth. But I resolved to call her by her name, which meant ‘golden one’, because she was a person, not a brain cyst diagnosis. It helped me to bond with her.
“We’re a team,” I whispered to her. “Whatever the future throws at us, I will be strong for you.”
Winter turned to spring, and two weeks before my due date, my friends and family surprised me with a baby shower. I felt terrified, exposed. Would I have to smile and pretend the pregnancy was going great?
But having everyone gather to bless my Golden One turned out to be the very best thing; because brain cyst or not, she was worthy of celebration. I felt myself relaxing, feeling a glow of anticipation.
She came on a warm spring evening. We gazed at each other and my heart burst with a radiance that obliterated all shadows.
Brain cyst or not, she was worthy of celebration.
Had I really been so afraid that she would be less than miraculous?
She was whole and untouched by my darkness, made of love, and joy, and perfection. She was herself, and I wanted no other.
*Real name has not been used
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