There I am in the passenger seat, noting how lucky we are to be on the road before rush hour. It's still dark out. I call my mom although Mike already did back at home. It just feels wrong not to.
There I am walking into the hospital while Mike parks the car, a wet spot growing on the front of my grey yoga pants. I tell the front desk that I'm in labor with twins, that Labor and Delivery know I'm coming.
There's Mike leading me off the elevator, down the hall of Labor and Delivery toward the main desk. A nurse calls to us from one of the rooms. "We were expecting you." She gives me a gown.
There's my mom sitting next to me. Mike is at the foot of the bed, and I'm answering questions for registration. I get an I.V. and have an ultrasound. Yep, baby B is still breech. C-section it is.
There's the clock on the wall of the hospital room. It's after eight o'clock, a busy morning, and the doctors are delivering babies, rearranging scheduled c-sections to fit me in. As the contractions begin and become more intense, I start to get anxious. "It's not fair to have to get cut open and have contractions."
There's the clock on the wall of the hospital room. Nine something when Dr. Hakim comes in to say it won't be long. He explains the details of the surgery, the procedures and risks. Mom jokes afterward that he should do radio commercials for pharmaceuticals, his voice is so soothing. When he mentioned that with any surgery there's a risk of death, I knodded confidently, so I think she's right.
Now mom is uncharacteristically fighting back tears, and I'm telling her that the babies and I will be fine. It helps me to have to say this. "But you have to understand," she says, "you're my baby." Impending grandmotherhood seems to be making her sappy.
There I am being wheeled on the hospital bed, out of the dimly lit room into the bright hallway, down the hall of automatic doors and into the operating room. I'm in an operating room.
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