A newborn, a wedding ring, and the phone call that changed everything

The phone rang at 2 p.m. It was a dreary January afternoon. I was snuggled up on the basement couch with our three-week-old baby girl.

I can still hear the voice on the other end. Stephanie sounded so warm and friendly. But when she introduced herself as a genetic counselor from London Health Sciences Centre, my heart sank.

She asked if I recalled the ‘heel prick’ test they’d done just after my daughter was born. I said yes, vaguely recalling a nice young man from the lab who had taken some blood from her heel in our Sarnia hospital room. I didn’t think much of it, at the time.

Stephanie explained that the test screens for a variety of disorders, and that my daughter’s results showed a “positive newborn screen for…” — and before the words even came out, I knew what she was going to say — Cystic Fibrosis.

Time stopped. I froze. “Are you there?” Stephanie asked. I tried to gather some composure as she continued talking, but all I could do was stare down at my precious little girl, asleep in my arms, as my eyes welled up with tears.

“Why her? Why us?”

A positive newborn screen, Stephanie explained, did not necessarily mean that my daughter had the disease. “It’s possible that she’s just a carrier, but she needs to come to London right away to confirm a diagnosis,” she said. “The earliest we can get you in is tomorrow.”

And so began the worst 24 hours of my life.

I immediately thought of everything I’d ever learned about CF — from high school biology, to my work as a reporter, interviewing families affected by the fatal genetic disease. Mucus. Chronic lung illness. Shortened life expectancy.

I remember thinking, “Our lives have just changed forever.”

The rest of our conversation is a bit of a blur. Stephanie gave me some brief information, statistics, and advised against searching on the Internet, which I immediately did. After an hour of Dr. Google, I had successfully worked myself into an anxious, trembling frenzy.

I called my husband at work and he raced home. I tried to explain everything the best I could. But when he — the eternal optimist and tough guy — broke down in tears while trying to call his parents, everything got a little more helpless.

I laid in bed with our daughter in my arms that night. I didn’t sleep. I just listened to her breathing — analyzing every breath, every sound. I allowed my mind to dream up the worst possible outcome. How am I going to take care of her? I was still a brand new mom, trying to get a handle on breastfeeding, late night screaming, and diaper explosions — all of which now seemed so trivial.

I watched the clock and anxiously waited for tomorrow, dreading its arrival.

The next morning, we packed up and drove to London, quietly holding hands in the car while our daughter slept in the back.

We arrived at the hospital and she was immediately taken for a sweat chloride test, which involved placing a device on her leg for 30 minutes. Then came the blood test. After that, we were told it would be about 60 minutes before they’d have the results.

And so began the longest hour of my life.

We waited in the cafeteria but neither of us had much appetite to eat. All I can really remember is nervously tugging on my wedding ring and staring at the clock. With about 10 minutes to go, we couldn’t wait any longer, and took the elevator to the Genetics floor. We were taken to a small room to wait for the results. When the door opened a few minutes later, my heart stopped again.

“The lab results are a bit behind, so you’ll have to wait another 15 minutes.”

The. longest. fifteen minutes. ever.

We sat there in silence as an eternity went by; holding hands, hoping for the best, but prepared for the worst. My legs shook with anxiety and I was drenched in sweat. And then the door opened again. I recognized the voice immediately. It was Stephanie. With a clipboard. She spoke for about a minute about the testing they’d done.

The longest minute of my life.

Then, I closed my eyes and heard the words I’d been waiting for:

“Your daughter’s sweat chloride test was negative. She does not have Cystic Fibrosis.”

It was the best thing I’d ever heard. My body let go, and relief took over. I looked down at my little girl with so much joy, as Stephanie explained that she was only a carrier of the disease, posing little risk for health implications. We talked at length about the genetics of it all, but in short, she was going to be just fine.

When Stephanie left the room, I finally cried. I squeezed my little stinker so hard, and felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

As we walked out of the hospital, I was overcome with emotions. I thought about our perfect little family, and how everything changed for us that day. I thought about the other children and parents we saw in those halls — the ones that don’t get to walk away with good news — and my heart ached for them. It was a lesson in gratitude we’ll never forget.

When we got home, I noticed my wedding ring was gone. We looked everywhere, but knew it must have been left behind at the hospital. They had no reports of a ring returned, and we never saw it again.

It’s been nearly three years since that phone call. We are now the proud parents of two healthy, beautiful girls and everyday is more joyful than the last. We haven’t taken a single day for granted, and we’re not sweating the small stuff. As for the ring, we really haven’t thought about it. We know that what we brought home that day was worth far more than what we lost.