Here's a curious story that happened long ego enough that I think it's finally okay to tell it.
About 18 years ago I was cautiously pregnant. From the very beginning doctors and midwives kept telling me, "This one might not be viable." Add to that, at 39 I was really old to be having another kid. So, about five months along, I was shipped off to Toronto where they had a fancy machine to do some tests that would see whether or not the pregnancy should continue. They were worried about Edward's Syndrome, which has a 50% fatality rate within a week of birth. For those who make it past that first week, they might make it a few years with constant medical interventions. They'll have a short life full of suffering.
At five months, you've already felt the baby move, so this was a very difficult day. Even worse, when they tried the test, the fetus was in a bad position. They needed it to roll over, so they gave me a chocolate bar and told me to run up and down the hallway to "wake it up." I had to rouse this tiny being for a test that was going to help me decide whether or not to "terminate" it. Yikes.
Long story short, the best they could do was to give me 50/50 odds, and I gambled and won. My little one is still going strong, except she's very very sick right now. She likely has Covid even though she keeps testing negative. She went to stay with her dad for a couple months, and they don't mask anymore, and there you go. I'm making my peace with that.
But that's not the funny part. There's more.