A Summer Birthday Party

My mother's side of the family is large and rambling.  While common genetic roots have a role in our unity, there are other players involved.  To explain exactly how and why a person is considered family can be confusing and tedious.  The subject is sometimes broached when all other topics have been exhausted, and conversation is starting to wane; but most of the time, cousins are cousins whether they are first cousins, second cousins once-removed, cousins through marriage, or even just the child of our mother's sister's oldest and dearest friend.  The same goes for aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews.  Grandparents are called by their given pet names (Nana, Pop-pop, etc.), whether or not they are your parents' parents.  

During the winter, family meetings are scattered and brief; but the during the summer months, the island swarms with relatives of all kinds.  

At the end of June, I brought my children to the twelfth birthday party of cousin Ollie.  It was a pool party.  Even with my mother there to help, wrangling my three little men, and keeping them alive and safe, proved nearly unmanageable. It was a moment in which motherhood dragged me along behind her, tearing my ego to shreds, and humbled me to accept help from older and wiser mothers.   I felt sure that everyone present was sighing to herself, thinking that I was foolish and unprepared for the demands of parenting; far too irresponsible, and overly entitled.  I couldn't make eye contact with anyone.  Instead, I begged their forgiveness and gratitude while blushing, and pushed screaming infants into the arms of various aunts and cousins as I dashed after Tristan, who seemed intent on death by drowning. 

On the way home, Tristan smiled at me.

His smile made me smile, and in one swift movement, my perspective changed, and my heart lightened. Tristan had had a wonderful time. Cameron and Jaime had nestled in loving arms of cousins and aunts, while my firstborn and I swam in circles for over an hour.  My cousins and their children had laughed and played, and enjoyed hotdogs, hamburgers, and Hoodsie cups.  Everyone may have been critiquing my parenting skills, but they probably weren't; even if they were, their thoughts were born from love, and the day was full of joy.  

It wasn't my finest moment as a parent, but luckily, my goal is not to be the best parent in the world.  My goal is to raise compassionate, humble, and happy children.  With the help of my family, I may have a chance of achieving it.

The Birth of Jaime Loomis and Cameron Whitford, Part III

                                

I awoke the morning of December 31st to find myself in the antenatal unit with my husband sleeping soundly on the couch next to me.  The room was large and pleasant looking.  A nurse came by take my vitals and monitor the babies.  Other than explaining that someone would return at 7pm, she had very little to say. She was followed by a woman who wheeled in a breakfast cart, and then left, without saying a word.

I sat and ate the first meal I had had in days, and texted my mother from Court's phone, begging her to bring me my son, and some fresh clothes, as soon as she woke.  I fell back to sleep, and awoke to a text that she and my mother-in-law were on their way. A few moments later, there was a knock on the door, and the sound of my mother's voice.  My heart leaped. I craned my neck, and stretched my arms toward Tristan, for whom I ached.  The poor child took one look at me and turned immediately away, clinging to his grandmother.  I felt a tightness in my throat. 

"You did the same thing when I went to have your brother," my mother said, kindly.  She went on to tell me that Tristan had had a stomach bug over the weekend, and had been up vomiting two nights in a row.  I felt tears rolling out of the corners of my eyes, but pushed them away, so as not to frighten him further. Very slowly, he warmed to me, until finally he was brave enough to sit on my bed.  I sent someone to fill a bottle, which he drank in my arms, and fell asleep.  We napped together until it was time to for him to leave.

Tristan and me on the last day of 2013.

What followed was a period of relative calm.  The days continued in very much the same manner as the first.  I was fed three nutritious, vegetarian meals a day, and slept soundly each night.  (One of the mothers in the online mothering group had sent me a pregnancy pillow; a kindness for which I will be forever grateful.)  The doctors and nurses were, for the most part, extremely kind and helpful, but wholly without answers.  Court stayed with me, and our parents brought Tristan to see us as often as possible.  After four days, it came to light that I was to remain in the hospital until the arrival of the twins, or as long as six weeks.  

That afternoon, Court went home to be with Tristan, while I weathered a snowstorm alone in my hospital room.  I began to feel as if my contractions were again strengthening.  I thought that maybe this was a psychological response to the prospect of staying in the hospital for another month and a half.  The nurse on duty seemed to agree with this theory.  

With this in mind, when Court came to visit me the following day, I sent him home, even though I was again feeling intense discomfort in my abdomen.  A few hours later, the nurse came in with a doctor.  She said she had a feeling I should be checked, just in case.  I agreed. 

"She's at 6," said the doctor quietly but quickly, snapping off her glove.  Again, the room sprang into action, and again, I started shivering and crying.  

"You're 32 weeks, and you've had the steroids, your babies are going to be just fine" everyone kept reassuring me. 

"My husband isn't here, we have to wait for my husband," I pleaded back, as I frantically texted and phoned Court.  

As he sped along the highway, a team of nurses began prepping me for a caesarean-section. I was wheeled into an extremely bright, harsh room with what seemed like a thousand people.  There was a team of doctors for each baby, and one for me.  I started to panic.  I was given a spinal, and still, no sign of Court. I began to babble to the anesthesiologist, who did his best to offer reassurance and calm.   

I was lying on the impossibly narrow metal slab, with a pale green sheet draped in front of me, curtaining my numb lower half from view, when I saw Court making his way toward me.  Relief flooded through me, followed closely by a wave of intense nausea. I alerted the anesthesiologist, who was more than a little concerned, but was, evidently, up to the challenge.  He helped me successfully vomit without choking. 

A few moments later, I heard the surgeon telling his intern to really put her weight into it. 

"Baby A is out," someone called.  I waited tensely until I heard a tiny, infant cry. 

"Baby B is out!"

Again, I waited, and again, I heard a tiny wail. 

This seemed to take several minutes, but later I learned that the boys were born within moments of each other, at 9:46 in the evening.  It was Saturday, January 4, 2014. Baby A weighed 5lb2oz, and baby B weighed 4lb2oz.

After I was reassured that the babies were both alive and well, and breathing on their own, they were rushed off to the NICU. 

I was alone for several hours after that, but it was ok; I felt peace, and relief.  Finally Court returned, and I was brought to meet my children.  A doctor from the NICU explained everything I needed to know, and Court and I decided on names.  I was wheeled back to my room, and given something to help me sleep.

It didn't work.  Court slept soundly next to me, while I remained alert and restless at 3 o'clock in the morning.  I called the nurse on duty and asked to be taken to the NICU.  When I arrived I asked when I could hold my children, and begin breastfeeding.  Jaime (baby A) was having some trouble breathing, so he couldn't try to nurse, but I could hold them both immediately.   One at a time, I was given each boy, and then left alone.  I sat, in the dark, and held them against my chest and hummed, and as I hummed, I prayed.  

Three and a half weeks later, Jaime Loomis and Cameron Whitford were healthy enough to come home. Tristan was uncertain at first, but has since come to love them fiercely.

The Birth of Jaime Loomis and Cameron Whitford, Part II

I returned home from that first trip to the ER confused and anxious.  The doctors had told me that my chances of delivering in the next two weeks were less than 5%, and also emphasized the lack of research in support of bedrest.  I was given no instructions for at-home care.  This contrasted sharply with what my body was telling me.  I vented my distress to an online group of mothers, whose advice and support I had come to trust and value.  One of the mothers in the group, Raf, is a labor and delivery nurse.  I described to her my symptoms, and she said it sounded like the combined weight of the babies was putting pressure on my cervix, causing it to dilate.  She advised self-imposed bed rest and lots of water. 

I tried to follow her advice,  but without the support of a doctor, it was very difficult to resist chasing after my one year old at a family Christmas gathering.  My contractions grew stronger, but never regular.  They came in waves, and then stopped for hours.  I was wary of the chaos of the emergency room, and determined not to return until labor was absolutely undeniable.  Instead, I continued to keep Raf updated on my symptoms.  On Sunday afternoon, she started telling me to return to the hospital.  My contractions still weren't regular, but they were very close together and increasingly painful. 

I don't know where my husband was, but I remember being alone, lying on the uncomfortable white couch in our formal living room, clutching the iPad, and waiting for him to return.  I still wasn't entirely convinced that it was time to go, and when he finally arrived, we discussed the matter for an hour so longer.  After all, the doctor had told us we had a 95% chance of lasting at least another two weeks.  I phoned Newport Hospital, where I delivered Tristan, and asked if I could come in for a quick check.  The labor and delivery nurse who answered was alarmed by the sound of my voice, and advised us to go straight to Providence.   Around nine in the evening on December 28, 2014, we packed our belongings, and headed in.  

During the hour or so that it took us to get to Women and Infants, it became clear that we had made the right decision.  My contractions were now strong enough that I was writhing in pain, and I could no longer talk through them.  Still, at times they would slow, and when they did, I became full of doubt over whether we should have left Tristan and made the drive.  

Eventually we were ushered into a small, decrepit cell in triage (as I mentioned, this section of the hospital was under renovation), and again, my cervix was checked.  

The stages of my dilation are a bit hazy to me.  I'm not sure if I was 2cm on my first trip, and 2.5 when I arrived on Sunday, or 0cm on my first trip, and 2cm on Sunday.  In any event, I wasn't very dilated. Court and I were relieved but bewildered. Having delivered a baby only fourteen months earlier, I recognized the strength of what I was feeling.  I was offered morphine, which I readily accepted.  An hour later, I was still in pain, and a doctor checked my cervix again.  I had dilated to 4.5/5cm.  This is the cusp of active labor.  The room suddenly buzzed with action.  

My breath became short, and, on the monitors, the babies' heartbeats raced. The doctor by my bedside pointed this out to me, gently asked that I remain calm.  I began babbling, one minute optimistically, afterall, my water remained unbroken, and I had read about the high survival rates of babies born at 31 weeks gestation; the next minute in terror, guilt, and disbelief.  I clutched Court's hand in my own and threw myself helplessly into his gaze.  The firmness and nearness of his presence stopped the manic stream of chatter, and instead, I settled into a bizarre pattern of gasping, laughing, and sobbing.  My skin prickled with goosebumps and I shivered, though I don't remember feeling cold.  I was given various medications and fluids, both intravenously and orally, the explanations of which were lost to me.

At some point I was wheeled into a windowless room with an obstetrician from my own practice.  I remember her as tall, with blond hair, and a confident voice.  She explained to me that I had been given a shot of steroids, to help the babies lungs grow, and magnesium, which, in addition to helping stave off labor, would help prevent potential brain bleeds, which were common in preterm infants.  There was also an NSAID, of some sort, which was helping to prolong labor, I think.  She introduced a doctor from the NICU, who kindly and reassuringly explained how the neonatalogists would protect and care for my babies, were they to arrive that evening.  I remember her as a very calming presence, but I can't recall a word she said.  

I was wheeled to yet another windowless room, which was somehow even darker than the first.  My pain increased, for which I was administered Stadol, a drug which I will never again accept.  I lost all sense of reality. I faded in and out of consciousness, and could not determine when I was dreaming, and when I was awake.  The person in the chair next to me transformed from my husband to my mother, and at one point, even my father-in-law. I kept whispering for them not to leave me, and asking for reassurance that I was awake, and alive.  Meanwhile, nurses filtered through, administering drugs and fluids, and begging me to sleep.  Unfortunately, my pain and fear would not subside, and I remained awake, confused and incoherent.

Eventually, slowly, the Stadol wore off, and I began to understand that my contractions had slowed and I was no longer dilating.  The room came into focus, and I saw that I was in labor and delivery.  Labor had been successfully halted for the 48 hours necessary for the medications I'd been given to take affect on my unborn children.  

I was wheeled to a fourth room.  I still had very little idea of what was happening, or what was to come, and I missed Tristan terribly.  Even so, I was giddy with relief to be in a room with a window, and a sofa bed for my husband.  We watched television, and finally, I slept.

The Birth of Jaime Loomis and Cameron Whitford, Part I

       

Snow has melted, seeds have been planted and begun to sprout.  Somehow, our days are no longer a blur of breastfeeding, pajamas, sleepy eyes and picture books, and have instead become blissful stretches of sunshine and salty air.   Tristan has traded his crib for a bed, and Cameron and Jaime have transformed from impossibly small preemies to laughing, chubby babies, who roll over and scooch. It's been exactly five months and seven days since they burst into the world, eight weeks ahead of schedule, and now seems as good a time as any to tell the story of how it happened.

Cameron and Jaime are mono/di twins; that is, monochorionic/diamniotic.  In other words, they are identical twins, who shared a single placenta, and whose amniotic sacs were separated by a very thin membrane.  By contrast, fraternal twins, or di/di, each have their own placenta, and their amniotic sacs are separated by a thicker membrane.*  All multiple births are higher risk than singletons, but mono/di twins are especially so.  Because of this, in the second half of my pregnancy, I went for monitoring twice a week, OB appointments once a week, and ultrasounds every other week.

I thought this would be easier.  A torrent of emotions and sensations floods through me as I go back in time, to late December.  I'm not just remembering the contractions that I felt for weeks, my lower abdomen is stiffening with discomfort.  Flashes of backdrops are passing before my eyes; the bright, clean waiting room at the Prenatal Diagnostic Center; crushed snow and ice in the parking lot at Women and Infants; dark skies, Christmas lights; the dirty, crumbling emergency room that was in the midst of renovation; the hospital room that was my home for 12 days; even the harsh, narrow operating table where I would eventually give birth.   These images remain clear and strong in my mind, but they are just glimpses.  Stringing them into a coherent narrative challenges me.

Christmas was a blur.  Most of my memories of the day have since been condensed into a few photographs of Tristan playing with his new toys.  I also remember the intense pressure that I felt when I was on my feet, as if the babies would fall out of me at any second, and how my contractions seemed to increase after a morning of chasing Tristan and tending to chores.  I felt instinctively that I should be on bed rest, but I couldn't bring myself to ignore my responsibilities as wife and mother.  Tristan was going through a phase of night-waking, and we were so busy with the holidays that I could never seem to find the time for adequate sleep or nutrition.

The day after Christmas, Court and I drove to Providence for a routine scan. The monitor picked up enough contractions that the nurse sent us over to triage. Nine hours later, after several excruciating cervix checks, we were sent home; exhausted, famished, and missing our son.  It was a Friday, and I was a day shy of 31 weeks.

I find I'm feeling somewhat overwhelmed at the moment.  Though I remember the following days with considerably more clarity, I also find it more of a struggle to record them.  This surprises me; after all, this story has the happiest of endings.  It occurs to me that up until now, I haven't allowed this experience it's full weight.  I think I'll pause for the moment, and return after I've spent a few restorative hours playing with my children.

Upon Reading the Birth Story of the Second Son of Mrs. S

A friend has posted an update to her blog; the birth story of her youngest son.  My first thought was that the tale was unextraordinary.  My peers and I are in throes of child bearing right now, and it may be that I have become a bit blasé about things like contractions and missed epidurals. I read it anyway, in support of a fellow mother and her brave efforts to be heard.

Her story isn't uncommon; she tells of early labor that lasted for days, the poignancy of leaving her first born when the time came to deliver his brother, and the sublime joy of introducing them to eachother a few days later.  I've heard it before, and, in my own way, experienced it myself.  Yet, somehow, I seemed to have forgotten that this most basic and ancient of human traditions is the core of human magic and mystery.

I began reading out of a sense of sisterly duty, but soon my eyes pricked with emotion, and my breath caught in my lungs.  How foolish I'd been. Birth stories may be as old and plentiful as the human race, but they are also each unique, and full of mystery.  In recording the story of the birth of her second son, and publishing it in her blog, my friend, Mrs. S, has offered her readers a glimpse of something beautiful and miraculous.

In short: thank you, Mrs. S, for your life-affirming account of the miraculous birth of your second son, and for inspiring me to record how each of my children entered the world.  These are stories that matter.

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