A New Lu by Laura Castoro

room of Davin’s lacrosse team to bring the jersey he had forgotten. Though the waiting room does smell better.
    When my name is finally called, I shake my head slightly and pick my way past children and strewn toys, heading for the peace and quiet of another meat-locker-temperature examining room.
    I’ve heard the heart beat! It’s strong and fast as a squirrel’s! The image looks like a bigheaded shrimp in a blurry Jacques Cousteau film, but that’s enough for me. I’ve met my child-to-be via sonogram.
    â€œYou are correct in your assumptions.” Dr. Reynolds is curt, nothing touchy-feely in her approach. “You are approximately twelve weeks pregnant.”
    â€œOkay.” I take a deep breath. It’s official.
    â€œThis is an unnecessary risk to your health, at your age. You do understand that?”
    With the help of the nurse I’ve levered myself into a sitting position. “Are you saying I’m not strong enough to bear a child?”
    Dr. Reynolds looks impatient. “You may make it through the pregnancy with minimal effects, if you take excellent care of yourself. But you must consider the child, and the next ten or twenty years.”
    â€œYou mean my life expectancy?”
    She glances at me over the tops of her narrow-framed reading glasses “You’d be sixty-five with a teenager.”
    â€œNow, there’s a deal breaker.” I say it with a laugh, but she doesn’t crack a smile. Andrea was a friendlier opponent.
    â€œYou should consider your options seriously, Mrs. Nichols, for the good of all parties involved.”
    So far, if I count correctly, that’s a total of one. Me.
    She hands me a brochure. “I’ll give you a moment to look this over, and then I’ll be back.”
    It’s titled “Middle-Age Childbirth: A Commentary.” I’ve read a lot on the subject, but I scan the essentials.
For many, middle age is the beginning of chronic illnesses that can make it difficult for a woman caring for a toddler. Mothers of late-life children will require support, financial and emotional, and even help with child-rearing at a time when she may well be living on a reduced income, or even assisted living.
Jolly thought!
    It goes on, this euphoria-inducing read, to list the financial cost for nannies, nurseries, day care, surrogate care, after-school care and summer programs, with the presumption that a late-life parent is a working parent. Then there is mention of the problematic only-child syndrome. I thought we’d kicked that theory to the curb years ago. A brat by any other name is still a brat. This is a diatribe, not a presentation of options.
    Turn the page and the real fun begins. The risks of late-life birth. Birth defects. Low birth weight. Brain damage. Gestational diabetes. Difficult delivery. Down’s syndrome. Spina bifida. There’s the recommended diagnostic testing for late-life pregnancies: chorionic villus sampling, amniocentesis and percutaneous umbilical blood sampling. Each procedure is followed up by cost analysis, which it says are not always covered by insurance.
    I toss said brochure in the wastebasket. But I’m rattled.
    â€œSo then,” the doctor says, returning as though ourconversation had been put on pause, “what do you think?”
    â€œI think that so-called helpful-hints pamphlet paints a broad target for people’s fears. I have no chronic illnesses, and last time I checked my medical insurance was fine.”
    She quirks her mouth. “You’ve got good genes. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But senior citizens use up a disproportion of medical and hospital resources as it is. If women your age continue to become regular consumers of obstetrics care, that will finish us. The risks are too high, and my malpractice insurance couldn’t stand the inevitable suits from high-risk pregnancies that should never have been encouraged