Born (Third of Three)

part one
part two

I remember very little else from the operating room after they were born. I think I probably asked how much they weighed. I remember pictures being taken. One of the nurses standing by Baby A’s warming station called out “Can I get someone from the NICU over here, please?” And then, without missing a beat, she added, “Just for an extra pair of hands?” I realize now that second comment was thrown in to keep me from panicking, and it worked – I had no idea until much later that poor Baby A was awarded a whopping 3 (out of 10) on his one-minute Apgar score. (He was up to a 9 by five minutes – thank you, outstanding medical personnel!) In what seemed like no time at all, Matt and the babies and their staffs were all being bustled out of the room to recovery, and suddenly no one was paying much attention to me anymore. The surgical team was chatting with each other, and the nurses who’d been so nice to me earlier had left with the babies. My only company was the dull-as-dishwater anesthesiologist, who clearly felt he was getting a raw deal by not being allowed to knock me out completely. I had been terrified of this exact scenario when imagining the c-section, but in the moment it didn’t matter at all. I just couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that we had a boy and a girl. After months of being so certain that they were both boys, I was overcome with the surprise of my little girl (and to this day I still have this strange feeling that someone is going to come and tell me that there was a mistake, and that she’s not actually mine, or not actually a girl – the latter possibility seeming less and less likely with each diaper change). While I honestly didn’t have a particularly strong preference about the babies’ sexes as I was wheeled into the OR, by the time I was wheeled out I have to admit that I felt incredibly, indescribably fortunate to have both a daughter and a son (words that still sound crazy and wonderful to me).

I lay there as they stitched me up and mused on the fact that we now knew their names, including the fact that they would have Matt’s last name (we’d agreed ahead of time that if the twins had been two of the same sex, they’d have my last name, and if they were one of each sex they’d have his last name – sort of a built-in coin flip). The OB showed me their placentas, which I know some people will think is gross, but I wanted to see these amazing, disposable organs that I’d grown and that my body had used to nourish my babies for months and months. (They looked exactly like you’d expect: jiggly, bloody lumps. Still.) I consulted with my delightful anesthesiologist about a very strong pain in my left upper arm, and he comfortingly told me that it was probably referred pain from my uterus being outside of my body and resting on my leg. (Right around this time I also noticed that if I looked directly at the overhead light, I could see a (blessedly) fragmented reflection of what was going on on the other side of the curtain below – ack! It looked a lot like Matt’s diagram.)

Finally, finally it was time for me to join Matt and the babies in the recovery room. We took turns holding our children and getting to know them. It’s funny; a few days before they were born I mused to Matt that I expected that for the first few days or weeks I would probably think of the babies as a unit – “the twins” – and only later really start to differentiate between them as I got to know them as individuals. Apparently I expected to have the most generic babies in the world. In fact, they were unique little people full of their own personalities right from the beginning. It was the first of the many surprises that motherhood has brought me so far.

Matt and I spent the next four days in the hospital, in a room with a large picture window looking out over divine Providence (and the hospital parking lot). We got about six hours of sleep in the first 60 hours. Julian and Eloise were born just in time to watch the Red Sox play their last game of the 2008 postseason and, slightly later, to see the first black man elected president of the United States. I feel exceedingly lucky that I get to devote the next several years to witnessing what else their lives have in store for them. At least until they’re teenagers and they start telling me to butt out.

Today is actually my official due date. No one ever expected me to go 40 weeks with twins, of course, but it’s still the date I used throughout pregnancy — usually with a “twins” caveat — at my OB’s office and whenever anyone asked. Just three weeks and a day later, it is impossible for me to grasp that with a different pregnancy I might only now be giving birth. For all that I have failed to capture the magnitude and significance of my children’s arrival, I would have an even harder time putting into words the wonder and terror of our lives since, so I won’t even try. I want to try, because I already feel a crushing nostalgia for this time, which is going so fast. I don’t want to forget a moment of it, but I’m sure that written down it would sound like nothing but a dull recounting of clipping tiny fingernails and watching tiny chests rise and fall in sleep. Okay, on second thought, that actually sounds like a pretty terrific read to this smitten mother.

(But don’t worry, I won’t subject you all to it. You’re heroes for having made it even this far.)

Filed under Parenting, Pregnancy | Tags: birth | Comments (9)