Birth Story - Conclusion

Although I had attempted to prepare myself by speaking to my doctors about c-sections and reading the appropriate chapters in my pregnancy books, as I left Mike and my mom back in my hospital room to be prepped in the OR, I felt very alone.  And shakey. Terrified, really.

Even if I had delivered the babies vaginally, it would have taken place in an OR.  I knew that with the high-risk nature of multiple births, most hospitals don't take chances on delivery rooms, knowing that half-way through a vaginal delivery, a c-section could be called for the second baby. 

Like the surgery itself, I tried to prepare myself  for the OR by imagining my babies' birth, both a vaginal and cesarian version, occuring in one.  Except, I'd never been in one.  Our tour of Labor and Delivery had ended outside of the last set of doors through which my bed had just been wheeled.  This room was much larger, brighter, and filled with more shining metal equipment than in my imaginary OR (mine looked more like the intimate, shadowy rooms where McDreamy saves lives).  It surprised me how much this foreign room affected me, how rapidly my heart was pumping, how hard it was to make it knock that off.

The remarkable thing about feeling as alone as I did is how alone I was not.  As my doctor had warned me there would be, there was an army of medical professionals in the OR.  If I remember accurately, there was a team of nurses for baby A (Michael), one for baby B (Sophie), two anesthesiologists, a pediatrician, two doctors to perform the surgery, and nurses to assist.  My doctor's warning had prepared me well for that aspect of the room, and I was glad to have so many experts around to bring these babies safely into the world.  And to sew me back up again.

There were two sources of growing comfort that helped me to keep my composure.  One was my nurse, Gail, who coincidentally had given us the hospital tour and whom I met again in my hospital room.   The other was one of the anesthesiologists, whose name I no longer remember, who greeted me in my room as well and stayed beside me until the surgery was complete.  Since she was standing above my right shoulder throughout our interactions, I don't recall her face either, just her caring tone.

As I was lifted onto the operating table, Gail commented on my painted toenails.  "Now, did you manage to paint those yourself, or do you have one of those kind husbands who will do that for you?"  I painted them myself, I told her.  The week before, I had been to the doctor for pain in my side that could have been kidney stones.  Miraculously, the pain went away on its own, and I celebrated my ability to bend at the hips again (at least to some degree) by painting my toenails. 

The anesthesiologist spoke to me as another one administered the spinal, walking me through the sensations conversationally.  "You'll feel a pinch in your back."  I did.  "And now your lower half should start to feel warm.  Do you feel the warmth?"  I did, and then I was numb from my midsection to my toes.

They strapped my arms out beside me and hung a blue curtain at my chest, all very Cuckoo's Nest, clearly to prevent me from freaking out at the sight or reaching out toward the surgery in a panic.

"Dad's here," the caring voice said, and Mike was on my left in blue scrubs, complete with a mask, cap, and shoe covers.

"That felt like forever," he said.  Time had been moving quickly for me, but I nodded. "How ya doin?" he asked.

"Ok."  He took my hand. "I'm numb." 

"As the surgery begins," the anesthesiologist said,  "don't be alarmed if you feel some pulling and pressure.  You shouldn't feel any pain, though." 

Dr. Hakim arrived and greeted me, introduced the other doctor.

I could feel a cold liquid on my belly, and some tugging. 

I started shivering.  "I'm really cold."  The anesthesiologist brought me warmed blankets and placed them over my outstretched arms.

Throughout the surgery I continued to feel the pulling and pressure and answered, "I'm ok," everytime someone checked on me.  With the surgery underway, Mike was offered the chance to look over the curtain and watch.  I didn't think he'd want to look, but he did.

"Do you have a camera, Dad?  It's almost time."  Mike gave the camera to the anesthesiologist who took over as photographer.

And then, "Here's baby A, a boy," and they held him above the curtain for me to see. 

"He's so big!" I said.  Michael was 6 lbs. 6 oz. and looked like a regular newborn baby, not one of the fragile little things I imagined.  They took him to be cleaned, and he cried.  And I cried, grinning large with tears streaming back toward my ears.  I could see Mike's smile even behind his mask.

"And baby B, the girl," and they held Sophie up.  Someone said she came in kicking and biting.

"She's so pretty!" I said.  She was 6 lbs. 1 oz. and I was truly stunned by how pretty her face was, a porcelain doll.  And she screamed while they cleaned her.  And I cried some more, filled with true joy.

The pediatrician left early, both babies' vitals and Apgar scores good.  The anesthesiologist said his leaving was a really good sign.

Mike held the babies for me to see and touch, and then he accompanied them back to the hospital room where we would stay for the next three days. 

For the next half-hour or so, they completed the surgery and closed me up.  At one point I became very nauseated and told the anesthesiologist.  She said at this stage in the surgery, during the repair of the layer they were working on, that usually happens.  In a few moments that passed as she had predicted.

My emotions leaving the OR were 180 degrees from what they were when I entered.  I felt trust and gratitude toward all the people in that room, for the success they achieved.  Joy and relief were replacing the apprehension and fear I had felt not only that morning, but for the previous 20 weeks since I had found out I was carrying twins.  I was eager to hold my babies and see Mike again, to be with the family that was born that morning.

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Go to Recovery

Birth Story, Part 2

From the ride to the hospital on, my memories of Sophie and Michael's birth are already fuzzy, an emotional slideshow of blurry snapshots. 

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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Sophie and Michael's Birth Story

Part I

Today Sophie and Michael are 11 weeks old, smiling and cooing, sleeping longer and longer stretches at night (last night they went 8.5 hours!).  Every Wednesday marks another week that I've shared with them, another week since I met my children.  

I had just rolled over from one side to the other, a slow maneuver when 37 weeks pregnant with twins, when I felt the warm water, lots of warm water spilling around my hips. I was immediately fully awake, heart beating quickly but otherwise calm, knowing what I needed to do.

Since it was about 6:15 a.m., Mike was in the living room getting ready to go to the gym before work when he heard me.

"Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"My water just broke."

"Seriously?"

He was in the room immediately, looking both stunned and eager.  "So, how quickly do we need to move here?"

On my way to the bathroom I told him we needed to get going fairly quickly, but we still had some time before contractions should get started.  I also reminded him what the OB told us at the most recent office visit, that I needed to call and have the doctor on-call paged. 

From the bathroom I heard Mike wiping up the floor, removing the sheets and mattress pad, and taking them down to the washer, reassuring me once again that I had a real partner in this.

I gave the answering service my cell phone number for the doctor to call me back on.  Then I realized I might have over-prepared.   In the trunk of my car, in the bag I had packed for the hospital, the bag we had brought along to the last doctor's appointment just in case, was my cell phone charger.  My battery was now nearly dead in a very critical moment. 

When Dr. Hakim (one of our favorites from the practice) called back, I gave him our home number to call instead so we wouldn't be cut off.  Thankfully that all went smoothly, and I explained what happened that morning.  I reminded Dr. Hakim that it was twins, that baby B was breech, and that we had a c-section scheduled for the following week.   He said to make our way to the hospital, that he would be performing the c-section sometime that morning.

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