Testing, testing, one, two, three

Week 16
I started worrying about hitting 35 as soon as I got over the trauma of 30. If 30 was a deadline for achieving a great career, a grown-up house and, especially, a stable relationship with an owner of all of the above, then 35 was definitely the babyline, the point at which, I vaguely understood, all your eggs went off overnight and conception became miraculous. I spent my 30th birthday semi-employed in London Zoo with my parents. In The Twilight World of the Small Mammal, actually, as it was raining. So I was rather smug when I managed to conceive a baby with a due-date just nine days before my 35th birthday. And it's been a bit denting, frankly, to discover that 35 isn't a deadline at all.

I've found out, for instance, that between 30 and 35, your chances of having a Down's syndrome baby go up from 2 in 1,000 to just 3.1 in 1,000. And that women under 35 actually give birth to more Down's syndrome children because they don't take so many tests. And, outrageously, that older sperm contribute to Down's syndrome, too. Now, why is this medical risk not touted and tutted over every time an elderly film star starts a third family with a nymphette?

Even the medical profession doesn't seem pleased that I'm under 35. In fact, all it seems to mean is that I had to pay for my own AFP test and personally post off a little phial of my still-warm blood to the testing centre.

Oh yes, AFP. After a few weeks immersed in pregnancy books, it is hard to remember that the world does not know what these initials mean. The AFP, Double or Triple test measures the amount of alphafetoprotein in your blood. Done at around 16 weeks of pregnancy, this can give you a likelihood of Down's syndrome or spina bifida in the baby.

The result is expressed as a percentage and you have to take a calculated risk from that of whether you want to proceed with your pregnancy, or have a further, more precise test - amniocentesis. This takes another three weeks and has a 1% chance of miscarriage.

The percentages and numbers are both fascinating and horrible. They remind me of the Moral Dilemma cards I used with teenagers when I had to teach citizenship class. Under what circumstances should Amanda have an abortion? When: a) She doesn't want a baby to spoil her figure? b) The baby is slightly handicapped? c) The baby has Down's syndrome?

Teenagers are terrible prigs. They generally thought Amanda should be allowed an abortion only if she had been multiply raped by close relatives and was carrying a baby with horns.

I was always defending Amanda's right to choose. I have always maintained that I would not carry a handicapped child. And, like any woman who has used contraception, I've already offed dozens of potential babies. But this moral dilemma is for real. The abortion would be real, too. By the time they've done an amnio, very real: induced labour, a recognisable foetus, and you might have felt it kick.

During the week's wait, I found myself thinking all sorts of things and doing all sorts of surreal, nightmarish sums. I thought of the torture women who do have amniocentesis go through, or women who know they carry a rogue gene. I wondered if modern science were helping me here, or if I could go through just as much doubt for superstitious or religious reasons.

I started wishing that I had done as the books suggest and told no one I was pregnant until I was sure the baby was staying. And I thought, over and over again, well, if I do have an abortion, I can always just say it was a miscarriage and no one will ask any more questions.

I found, in short, that even when slightly, imaginatively, briefly challenged, I was unwilling to stand up for what I believed in. I couldn't imagine actually admitting that my marriage, my work, my time, my happiness, were more important to me than the potential life of a handicapped child. It seemed suddenly selfish, unmotherly, unwomanly. I wanted to be like Amanda, a guiltless victim. I was a hypocritical teenager at heart, too.

Another hazard of being 34 and posting your own AFP test is the Royal Mail. I rang the testing centre for my result in the end, posing as a receptionist. I got the result most women get: that the odds against any handicap were very, very long. But you knew that anyway, didn't you? Or I wouldn't have written this article in the first place. I'm not that brave.

Today's best video

Today in pictures