When we were finally ushered into the consultant s room, he immediately launched into a bulletin of depressing statistics on the chances of a woman over 35 conceiving a child with some degree of chromosomal abnormality, Down Syndrome being the most common. He also talked about the increased risks of miscarriage, pre-eclampsia, pre-term labour and multiple births.

He said that because women are born with all the eggs that they will ever have in their lives, a woman of 40 effectively has 40 year old eggs. Apparently, the longer an egg sits around in the ovary, the more likely it is to develop chromosomal abnormalities. Men, on the other hand, continue to manufacture fresh sperm throughout their lives. It takes approximately 90 days for a sperm to reach maturity, so we had basically combined a 90 day old sperm with a 39 year old egg!

I felt like saying, And will I be able to use my zimmer frame during labour or would you prefer to use one of those hoists that you attach to elderly people when lifting them out of the bath?

Following the pessimistic views of the consultant, the conversation naturally led on to the option of pre-natal testing, the obvious choice being amniocentesis. He briefly mentioned other non-invasive, but inconclusive tests such as the **Nuchal Translucency and Bart s Quadruple risk-assessment tests.

There was never any doubt in our minds that we would opt for amniocentesis. Whilst we were fully aware of the miscarriage risks, we were far more concerned about having a congenitally handicapped baby. The date for the amniocentesis was, therefore, duly booked for 10 June 1999, four days after my 40th birthday. The procedure itself I found most unpleasant, firstly from an emotional angle and secondly from a physical point of view.

The ultrasonographer who conducted the scan, prior to my abdomen being stabbed with a sword-length needle, told us that she was almost certain the baby was a girl. I felt a rush of ecstasy when she said that because, although my main concern was that the baby was healthy, I was secretly hoping that it was a girl. At that point I felt like leaping off of the couch and not going through with the amniocentesis. Supposing the procedure damaged my baby in some way or caused me to miscarry a 100% normal, healthy foetus? I watched our perfectly formed little girl waving around her tiny arms and legs and felt this almost unbearable guilt at invading her secure environment and potentially causing her harm.

Once a suitable pool of amniotic fluid had been located, a mark was made on my abdomen with a felt tip pen, the point at which the needle would be inserted. The doctor, who spoke unintelligible English and sported a manic grin, proffered a consent form for me to sign giving my permission to go ahead with the procedure. At that point I could still have changed my mind but I looked at Mike and knew that I was making the right decision.

The whole time, the ultrasonographer talked us through the procedure, explaining that once the needle had been inserted into the amniotic cavity, the sharp bit would be removed leaving a thin plastic tube through which the fluid would be withdrawn. She reassured us that even if the baby reached out and touched the tube, she would not be harmed.

I felt Mike wince as I dug my nails deeper and deeper into his hand that he had proffered in order to act out the supportive role.

Following this torturous experience, we were ushered into a post-procedure rest room to have a drink of tea or coffee before being allowed to leave the hospital. However, because I was in so much discomfort I was then taken to another room and instructed to lie down. Oh, you mean Jan? chortled Mike, as he climbed off of the couch still clutching the hand that I had gripped with such ferocity. The manic doctor came in, still grinning and almost choked me on a Ventolin inhaler, which apparently relaxes the uterus.

The ultrasonographer poked her head around the door at regular intervals to ask how I was feeling and to offer reassurance that what I was feeling was perfectly normal.

I couldn t fault the sensitivity of the ultrasonographer, although I felt that the doctor had treated me like a slab of meat, as just another number in his daily routine of treating maternal fossils.

When the cramping had finally eased, I was allowed home. I still had a vague feeling of discomfort where the needle had been inserted but was told that this was due to bruising and was nothing to be alarmed about. I was also instructed to drink 2-3 litres of fluid within the same number of hours to replace the fluid that had been withdrawn from the uterus. I couldn't think of anything more revolting since I didn't drink that amount even during periods of intense thirst.

Mike tucked me up in bed and told me that I was only allowed to get up to go to the bathroom. He brought me pint after pint of iced water, switched on the TV and glared at me in a, If you even think about moving from there, you'll be punished type of look.

Two days before we received the results, I had a routine antenatal appointment with my jovial midwife. No news is good news she chortled, after I'd expressed my anxiety at not having yet heard anything.

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