Elena: I'm alone with the doctor examining me; my husband got held up at work. He finishes in complete silence, then drops it: "There's a clarity issue at the nape of the neck; go pay, and then I'll explain."
After I pay, I wait. But that doctor—"let's hurry up!"—never comes back. A secretary takes over and rushes me to schedule follow-up exams. "What exams?" — "Follow-up exams." Does that mean amniocentesis? "Yes." — "But I can refuse, I want to talk to my husband first." Then the head of amniocentesis appears and, faced with my hesitation, shouts across the waiting room: "You're being irresponsible. Trisomy 21 is a heavy burden. You need to know right away so you can decide quickly."
Shock. Paralysis. A medical decision has already been made—abortion—without explanation, without listening, without comfort. I manage to leave without scheduling anything (pure maternal instinct, survival instinct).
Francesco: I arrive after this first ordeal. I know nothing: "What's amniocentesis?" Thankfully, my wife knows plenty; she's worked with disabled children. We call doctor friends to make sense of the report: our son has a serious heart defect and probably trisomy 21. Amniocentesis can't cure anything and risks killing the baby in one case out of a hundred (I do the math—that's a risk a hundred times worse than the one he'll face on the road every year).
Thanks to these doctors who actually listen to us, finally we can cry.