Although I would be giving birth when I was 35, which meant that part of the gestational period would qualify as a “geriatric pregnancy,” I was still only 34 at the time of my amniocentesis. Because I didn’t reach the age requirement that the insurance company made a factor in deeming the testing necessary, they wouldn’t be covering as much of the cost. As hard as I tried to get the insurance company to do the math, I could not convince them that my age, at the time of childbirth, should qualify me for full coverage of the procedure. If only I had been four months earlier, I would have been $200 richer.

I always figured I’d have the procedure, since I was going to be of “advanced maternal age” at the time of my first baby’s birth. But earlier in my pregnancy I had done other prenatal testing with blood tests and a nuchal translucency exam. I began to doubt the necessity of amniocentesis, since there seemed to be no red flags about my child’s health based on the earlier testing. Was it really a good idea to get a needle stuck into my uterus, with the chance that it could hit and injure the fetus, all for the sake of getting a firm handle on the baby’s genetic development?

Having second thoughts was exhausting, as I spent mental energy weighing the pros and cons of amnio, and discussing ad nauseam, the benefits and risks with my doctor and partner. In the end, though, I wanted to have definitive knowledge about how my baby was doing and have not regretted getting amniocentesis with both of my pregnancies.

When I think of medical procedures, I think of brightly lit operating rooms (like any rabid Grey’s Anatomy fan would, thank you very much). I didn't expect my amniocentesis to take place in the. dark. Although the dim lighting made sense, to better see the image on the monitor, which was how the doctor was able to safely guide that needle into my uterus, it still made me nervous.

I knew the needle would be bigger than what was used for my flu shot. But knowing it didn't totally prepare me for its significant size.

I was told this could happen. After all, my skin had been punctured. The band-aid they put on my stomach was itchy so I ripped it off, but when I looked down at my belly, there was a spot of blood on my shirt. Of course, I freaked out, but the spot was tiny and I wasn’t actively bleeding. Still, it’s disconcerting to look down and see blood, especially if it’s located where you’re growing a new person.

Again, I knew I had to be very still during the procedure, but in the moment of it happening, with the needle entering my body (or so I was told, because I couldn’t watch), I willed myself to stay frozen. I took the tiniest breaths so as to not cause any heaving of my midsection. Amniocentesis is a quick procedure, but when you’re taking in frequent, shallow breaths in an effort not to move, it can seem like an eternity.

I was led to a recovery area after the procedure, which was really just a recliner curtained off from the rest of the waiting room. I was there for a good hour, restless and bored, while my husband kept busy unnecessarily holding a bottle of orange juice to my mouth for sips. When it got to be just too much to sit there, I called for one of the nurses, who sheepishly admitted they had forgotten about me. Nice.

The nurse, after remembering I was waiting to be discharged, advised me to take it easy and try to lie down for the rest of the day. Since I very rarely get a prescription of “do nothing,” I relished the opportunity to be prone on my comfy couch and read. And then watch garbage TV. And then try to nap. So that was about 45 minutes of my afternoon and I was utterly bored for the next three hours until it was time to eat.

I consider myself a pretty calm person. Having grown up in New York City, I’m good at tuning out all the chaos and staying chill in hectic situations. But none of that urban training prepared me for the anxiety of waiting to hear about my unborn baby’s genetic test results.